


Blood and Steel and Miles Between

by dreamlittleyo



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Post-Movie(s), Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Post-movie AU.) On a beach in Cuba, Charles manages to talk Erik down from the edge. But even after the missiles have been diverted, compromise is impossible. There are two different futures to build, and Erik and Charles will always be separated by their principles. But when Charles is kidnapped and the X-Men can't find him, Erik will get him back no matter the consequences.</p><p>Meanwhile, trapped alone in his mind for the first time in his life, Charles comes face to face with the truth about what and who he wants. When convictions stand in direct opposition to the heart, which will prevail?</p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div><p>Written for <a href="http://xmenbigbang.livejournal.com">X-Men Big Bang</a> on LJ.<br/><b>Fic Master Post can be found <a href="http://dreamlittleyo.livejournal.com/213115.html">HERE</a></b><br/>Art Master Post can be found <a href="http://yanagoya.livejournal.com/24674.html">HERE</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Blood and Steel and Miles Between（中文翻译）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2081907) by [ikerestrella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikerestrella/pseuds/ikerestrella)



If Charles had taken the time to imagine a worst case scenario before they departed for Cuba, he'd never have come up with this.

His chest aches, tight and hot and miserable, at the sight of Erik with his hand raised to the sky, missiles spinning slowly back on themselves to face the other direction. Erik doesn't speak. His expression is closed off, like he hasn't heard a single word of Charles's pleas.

Desperation claws at Charles's ribs, making his throat tight and his hands clench into fists at his sides. He can feel terrified minds screaming on those ships, loud enough that he's not sure he could block them out if he tried.

"There are thousands of men on those ships," Charles says— _shouts_ —stepping nearer to Erik. "Good, honest, _innocent_ men." The void of Erik's thoughts—god damn that helmet anyway—matches the blank wall of his expression, and Charles has never felt so helpless.

He's so close now. He's barely a foot away from Erik, and the "Please," that escapes past Charles's lips is soft and crushed.

It's also finally enough to get Erik's attention. Erik's gaze snaps away from the missiles and finds Charles. His face is still unreadable—he still holds the missiles threateningly in midair—but Charles can feel the full force of Erik's attention tingling across his skin.

"Do you have any idea what feeling them all die will do to me?" Charles whispers, so softly that no one but Erik can possibly hear him.

The blank wall on Erik's face shatters so suddenly Charles gasps at the sight, and in its place comes a look so terrified and intense that for a moment Charles can't breathe.

Then Erik shakes his head and tries to school his expression. He's only fractionally successful.

"You can shield yourself from them," Erik says.

"Maybe," Charles concedes. He's still not sure how well it would work. He's never been surrounded by death on a scale like Erik is threatening now. Besides. Charles brought this danger to their doorstep. Whatever happens to those men, he deserves to feel it.

Some of his conviction must show on his face, because Erik's eyes go suddenly wide.

"You won't even try," Erik realizes aloud. "They mean to kill you—kill _all_ of us—in cold blood, and yet you would let their deaths tear right through you."

Charles remains silent. There's no point arguing.

Erik makes a guttural sound, growling and low, as he tears his eyes from Charles. Despite the helmet, Charles can see Erik's jaw working unhappily, his teeth grinding as he glares at the sand.

"I don't want to hurt you," Erik says. There's fury in his voice, in the tight set of his shoulders, but Charles doesn't back down.

"Then stop this," he says. "Stop while you can still turn back."

"God damn it, Charles," Erik growls as his arm falls to his side. He's still staring darkly at the sand. Out over the water, Charles can hear the hiss and splash of a hundred missiles falling into the sea, and in his mind he feels cacophonous relief echoing from the boats beyond.

"Thank you," Charles whispers, closing the bare space still separating them and reaching to set a cautious hand on Erik's shoulder.

Erik intercepts him, fingers wrapping around Charles's wrist in an unforgiving grip. When Erik yanks Charles close and finally raises his gaze from the sand, his eyes are bright—with fear or fury, it's impossible to distinguish.

"You're wrong, you know," Erik says.

"About what?" They're standing so close Charles can feel Erik's breath on his face. His wrist aches in Erik's grip, but he doesn't try to pull away.

"It's already too late," Erik says. "There _is_ no turning back."

"Don’t say that." Charles's pulse sharpens in his ears.

"You can't be this naïve, Charles," Erik says. "They'll never accept us. You have to see that now. It will be us or them. The humans will allow for no other choice."

"There's _always_ a choice."

Erik's hold tightens, and Charles finches. He meets Erik's gaze stubbornly though—what's one more set of bruises after surviving a plane crash?

"Charles, _please_." Erik leans closer—so close Charles can barely meet his eyes—and there's painful desperation in his voice. "I want you by my side. We're…" He pauses and swallows thickly, as though the words are too heavy to get out, but finally manages to finish, "We're brothers, you and I. All of us, together, protecting each other… We want the same thing."

But even now, Charles can taste the promise of violence in the air. He can't sense Erik's thoughts through that damnable helmet, but his intentions are unmistakable in his words, the clench of his jaw, the shadows behind his eyes. Charles is the only thing standing between Erik and the murders he's burning to commit now, and he can't pretend not to see it.

"Oh, my friend," Charles murmurs, eyes drifting shut and voice rough with emotion. "I'm sorry. But we do not."

" _No_ ," Erik growls, giving Charles a jostling shake by the wrist he still holds restrained. "It's not supposed to end like this."

"It doesn't have to," Charles says. He opens his eyes and finds he can no longer read the expression on Erik's face.

It's not until Erik's fingers abruptly release him that the last ember of hope in Charles's chest sputters and dies. Nausea rolls in his gut, along with fierce, helpless denial as he watches Erik step back and away. Erik's eyes burn into him with each backward step, until he and Charles are separated by several feet of sand.

Then Erik's gaze veers sharply towards the others, and his voice rings across the beach.

"Their society will never accept us. We form our own." Erik's eyes skip right past Moira, and track over each mutant in turn. "The humans have played their hand. Now we prepare ours. Who's with me?"

Charles can't take his eyes off of Erik. He can feel indecision in the others' minds—in Havoc and Beast and Banshee… but in Raven most of all.

Then Erik raises a hand, beckoning.

"No more hiding," he says.

Raven takes a tentative step forward, and Charles forgets how to breathe.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The estate is too quiet with Raven and Erik gone—quieter still after Charles wipes Moira's memories and sends her back to the government she ultimately answers to.

Charles feels a brief twinge of remorse every time he considers what he took from her, but that slim edge of guilt is nothing compared to the knowledge of how many ways he let Raven down. And Erik. It takes weeks for him to acknowledge to himself that they're both really gone.

The sprawling grounds feel empty in Raven's absence, and Charles is grateful the night he steps out onto a balcony and inadvertently interrupts Hank in a private, pensive moment.

"I'm sorry," Charles says, though he's not particularly. "I'll just—"

"You can stay," Hank interrupts. His blue fur ruffles in the breeze. "I wouldn't mind the company."

"Nor would I," Charles confesses, stepping out onto the balcony and joining Hank against the stone banister that circles the space.

It's windy up here, but not unpleasantly so. The air is cool with late autumn evening, the sky dark with recent nightfall. The barest glow of sunset still sneaks along the low edge of the horizon.

The balcony itself is haphazardly lit by a yellow glow from inside, and Charles leans forward on his elbows.

A bottle of good-quality beer hangs from Hank's nimble claws, and when he catches Charles looking at it he arches an eyebrow and gives a dry smirk that bares his teeth.

"Go ahead," Hank says, indicating with a glance that the rest of the pack sits untouched on the ground between them. "Help yourself. There's plenty to share. And in any case, I raided your fridge for them."

Charles laughs at that. It's a brittle sound that doesn't quite mask the unhappy tightness in his chest.

"Well in that case," he says, stooping to claim a bottle for himself.

The glass is cool, and slick with condensation, and Charles has to dry the bottle on his shirtsleeve in order to conquer the twist-off cap.

"Are you even old enough to drink this stuff?" Charles asks. It's a transparent attempt at diversion—he knows perfectly well that Hank is over eighteen. Hell, Hank turns twenty in just under a month.

Charles's voice doesn't come out as light on the jibe as he intends, but Hank snorts and pretends not to notice.

"Are _you_ old enough to run an entire school?" he counters smoothly.

"No," Charles responds instantly. But also _yes_. Yes, because he has to do this. He's never before known a purpose as clear as the one that rests on his shoulders now.

The moment falls somber, and the silence that settles between them is heavy and pensive. At the edges of his mind, Charles can hear the undercurrent of ideas that runs constantly through Hanks' thoughts. He doesn't press any deeper—the last thing he wants to do is intrude. But from so close—side by side, with no unnecessary shields raised between them—Charles catches the moment a familiar sadness surges forward over Hank's surface thoughts.

"They're never coming back," Hank says.

"No," Charles says. "I suppose they're not." It hurts to have the words out in the open. It hurts even more than burying the truth inside, and Charles's skin feels suddenly too tight for his body.

"This is going to be a lot harder without them," Hank says, then takes a long, slow pull from the bottle in his hand.

"I know." Again they lapse into silence.

It's a silence Charles doesn't know how to break, so he focuses on calming his mind instead. He tries to shut out the scattered sense of loss permeating his thoughts, and has some small semblance of success. He startles when Hank interrupts the uncomfortable quiet.

"So… what now?" Hank asks abruptly, yellow eyes fixed firmly on the horizon. Hope and curiosity flicker at the surface of his mind, and Charles finds his own spirits lightening unexpectedly at the unspoken vote of confidence.

"Now we look for others like us," he says. "We can't very well call this a school if there are no students."

Hank grins at that, a moment of genuine levity, and though it passes quickly, Charles can't help but share in it.

"I suppose you'll expect me to teach," Hank says.

"Oh, yes," Charles agrees with exaggerated gravity. "All the sciences, as well as math and statistics. And perhaps a pottery class."

Hank snorts, and Charles smiles and nudges him with an elbow.

"In all seriousness," Charles says more softly. "Would you be comfortable with that? With teaching? Our resources may be limited at first, but I don't want to presume—"

"Professor," Hank cuts him off with a wry look. "You're going to need all the help you can get. Count me in."

"Thank you," Charles says, exhaling a slow, relieved breath.

"Have you talked to Sean or Alex yet?"

Hearing their names instinctively hones Charles's focus, and suddenly he knows both boys are in the kitchen. He could eavesdrop on their conversation with the slightest push, with the barest touch of fingers to his temple, but of course he doesn't do that.

"Not yet," he says. "To be completely honest, I haven't yet figured out what to do with those two. I know they want to help, but… they're so _young_. And now that they're able to control their abilities, there's nothing obligating them to stay. Perhaps instead of conscripting them I should be—"

He's cut off by a sharp chuckle, and in his peripheral vision he sees Hank stoop to set down an empty bottle and replace it with a fresh drink.

"I know you can't help thinking of us as kids, Professor, but give us a little credit. You have to give them a chance, at least. You're a telepath, remember? You'll be able to tell if you're asking too much."

Charles has to concede that point, and he takes a slow swallow of his own drink.

"I'll talk to both of them tomorrow," he says.

"How are you going to find others?" Hank asks, shifting the direction of the conversation so abruptly that Charles finds himself blinking in surprise.

"I'll have to get out there myself, I suppose," Charles says. "I still have a couple of leads from Cerebro. It's somewhere to start, at least, if—" Charles blinks again, then cocks his head to the side as he considers the cryptic look on Hank's face. "But you've got other ideas," he realizes. "You're up to something."

Hank shrugs noncommittally, but a buzz of anticipation pulses around him.

"I've been collecting the materials we'll need to rebuild Cerebro," Hank says. "The plans were destroyed with the installation, but it's all in here." He taps his forehead. "And I've got some ideas… some changes that might make the whole system more precise. All I need is—"

"Somewhere to build it," Charles finishes in an awed rush.

"And permission, of course," Hank adds with a sheepish look.

"Of course," Charles says. "Hank, of course. Permission granted. First thing tomorrow we'll take a tour of the grounds and see what we can find."

"Actually," Hank says, somehow managing to look _more_ sheepish, "I've… already isolated a couple possible locations."

"Of course you have," Charles says, shaking his head in disbelief. This time when he smiles, the expression feels only the tiniest bit tight around the edges.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik barely removes the helmet, even in sleep, for two full weeks after fleeing the beach in Cuba. Even then, even when time and distance combined make it unlikely that Charles will be actively searching for him, he wears the helmet far more often than not.

"I can't decide if it looks dashing or completely ridiculous," Mystique teases him once. Erik smiles at the fondness in her voice—no one else is allowed such an irreverent tone, but for Mystique he will make an exception.

"Your impudence is heartwarming," he informs her blandly.

She watches him from several paces away across a pale green lawn—the villa is one of Erik's carefully cultivated safe houses. Isolated. Surrounded by forest. They won't stay long, but for the moment no one will find them here.

Mystique is naked despite the chill in the air, and Erik finds himself wondering if she feels the elements in the same way others do. She's constantly proving herself stronger than anyone realized, even her, and perhaps this is just one more talent in her arsenal.

Erik will never stop finding her glorious.

She's watching him now with a somber expression, curiosity tinged with quiet concern. The attention makes his skin tingle unpleasantly.

When she opens her mouth, he doesn't give her the chance to speak.

"Don't," he cuts her off sharply. He doesn't know _exactly_ what she was going to say, but he can predict the subject of her inquiry easily enough.

He doesn't want to talk about Charles.

"Fine," Mystique mutters, and Erik feels a tiny twist of guilt at the frustration in her voice.

"Where's Azazel?" Erik asks before he can do anything foolish like invite more personal conversation.

"Close," Mystique says.

Azazel is always close.

"Find him," Erik orders. "I need to talk to him."

Mystique leaves without waiting for a dismissal, and Erik has bare moments to wait before a red-tinted puff of air to his left signals Azazel's presence.

Azazel doesn't ask Erik's reasons for summoning him. He waits, silent and patient, for Erik to speak the first word. It's how all their conversations begin.

"Tell me about Miss Frost," Erik says. It's a subject he's been meaning to broach for several days, and he has no excuse but his own distraction for having let it wait so long.

Azazel's lip curls in an expression of vicious amusement, but the man responds candidly enough.

"She is not fond of you," Azazel says. "And so far as I know, she is still being held by the Americans at a secure government facility."

"I'm surprised you haven't already helped her escape," Erik says.

"Perhaps I assumed _you_ were not fond of _her_ ," Azazel observes dryly. But there's a spark of mischief in his eyes as he continues, "Or perhaps I have already tried, but the Americans have learned better security." Which probably means after the disaster with Shaw at a different covert facility, they found a way to prevent the teleporter from sneaking through their walls.

There's no apology in Azazel's voice—a fact which Erik very much appreciates.

"Your loyalty is admirable," Erik says, and Azazel nods in acknowledgment. "Now. How well do you think that security will hold up against all of us?"

Surprise registers on Azazel's face. Dark eyebrows arch high, and the omnipresent sneer falls from his mouth.

"She may refuse to join your cause," Azazel points out.

Erik doesn't comment on how surprised he'll be if she _does_ want to sign on, considering their last encounter.

Instead he says, "That's her decision to make. But in the meantime, we can't very well leave her in the hands of the humans."

"No?" Azazel asks, eyes narrow and gauging.

Erik meets his questioning stare head-on, squaring his shoulders and letting conviction flash in his eyes.

"She's one of us," he says simply.

This time, when Azazel nods, there's a something like genuine deference in the gesture.

"When do we depart?" Azazel asks.

"Tomorrow," says Erik. "And then the real work begins."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Breaking into the CIA detainment facility is a veritable cakewalk. It's a bunker, really. All metal doors, metal hinges, metal and stone woven into a sturdy whole, infinitely susceptible to Erik's particular brand of control.

The building doesn't stand a chance of keeping them out.

Just like the government agent in his cleanly pressed suit doesn't stand a chance of resisting Erik's questions.

Pure bad luck, really, being caught alone in what was supposed to be a secure corridor. Erik sneers at the shaking fear in the man's face as he winds metal from a light fixture around trembling arms.

Erik doesn't plan to kill the man if he cooperates, tempting though the prospect is. He tells himself it's got nothing to do with the fact that Charles wouldn't approve.

"She's not here," the agent is sputtering helplessly.

"Where _is_ she, then?" Erik snarls, impatient. His people are behind him, guarding their escape route, ready to back him up against any threat. Erik doesn't need to turn and look at them to feel their silent support.

Mystique steps forward then. Erik wasn't expecting that, but he doesn't protest as she approaches the agent with graceful steps. He flinches visibly at her approach, and Erik sees her yellow gaze harden almost imperceptibly.

She stops just before the restrained man and asks, "What's your name?" Her voice is deceptively gentle. If Erik didn't know her so intimately by now, he might have missed the cool steel subtly underpinning the words.

"T-Thomas," the terrified human stammers, clearly comprehending that his only real option is full and immediate cooperation.

"Thomas," Mystique parrots calmly. "You're not making much sense, you know. All we want is information. We have no business with you beyond that."

"You—…" Thomas licks dry lips, voice trembling less now. "You mean…"

"I mean we aren't here to hurt you. We just want the telepath."

Her tone, calculated as it is, seems to be calming him. He sounds less like a terrified animal when he once again opens his mouth to speak.

"She was here," he says. "But she's gone now."

" _Where_?" Mystique presses, a low growl creeping into her voice.

"I don't know," Thomas squeaks. "I swear I don't. She was scheduled to be transferred to a different facility. A restricted location. But two days before the transfer, she vanished!"

"She escaped," Erik interrupts, impressed as the realization hits him. Apparently they took too long. Emma Frost has already walked out on her own terms.

Perhaps Erik should've expected as much from a telepath, even one patently less powerful than Charles Xavier.

"Come," Erik says, turning his back on the agent and rejoining the other mutants near the mangled door behind them. "There's nothing for us here." He doesn't hear Mystique's footsteps behind him, but he knows she's following.

Azazel meets his eyes, piercing and sharp. As they retrace their path—Riptide and Angel in the lead—Mystique falls into step at Erik's left. To his right, Azazel follows suit for a moment, then—

A puff of air, red-tinged and empty, and behind them the slick sound of a blade slicing through flesh, a wet scream that ends abruptly—

And Azazel is back beside Erik an instant later, the same knowing look in his eyes.

They move efficiently, navigating the corridor towards the courtyard beyond the protective barricade. They have to put themselves physically outside the outer wall through which Azazel can't teleport.

As they approach the shattered portal Erik punched through on entry, he hears himself ask, "Why?"

"He knew your face," Azazel says, as though it's the most obvious point in the world. "He could not be allowed to live with such knowledge." Erik considers mentioning that the government already knows his face, but decides that's a revelation best shared elsewhere.

Later, when they're safely away from the government facility and hidden somewhere quiet and discreet, Azazel approaches him again.

Azazel's voice is pitched low—in deference to the late hour, perhaps, or simply to avoid drawing attention—as he says, "Whatever prevented you from killing the human is your business. I will neither ask nor judge."

"But?" Erik prompts.

"But," Azazel continues with a nod. "I have no intention of standing by and allowing you to put yourself needlessly in harm's way. You are far too important."

Erik feels something sharp and unpleasant—something disturbingly close to gratitude—twist in his chest.

"You intend to protect me?" he asks. His voice and face are both carefully modulated to convey nothing.

"Yes," Azazel says. "With my life if necessary. Though…," he tilts his head to the side and smiles wryly, "I would appreciate if it didn't come to that."

In the end Erik can think of nothing to say, so all he says is, "Thank you."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Sean wants to help teach—a fact that impresses Charles, and he feels a brief twinge of guilt at just how surprised he is by the offer.

"Not promising I'll be any _good_ at it," Sean says. "I graduated just fine, but my grades were never… Let's just say I wasn't ever in line to be valedictorian."

Charles smiles and claps Sean warmly on the shoulder.

"I appreciate that, Sean," he says. "Though strictly speaking, I don't think I can put you in front of a class without proper certification."

"What about not-so-strictly speaking?"

Charles's smile widens and he says, "Speaking _less_ strictly, I'm sure we can put you to use. And if you really are interested in teaching, I'm sure there's a way to get you certified without having to send you away from the estate."

"You're gonna be a stickler for details, aren't you."

"It's necessary," Charles says apologetically. "In order to avoid drawing unwanted attention, the school's credentials will have to be flawless. But I promise you, this is something I will look into."

"Sweet," Sean grins. Then the smile falls away and he says, "But don't put me in charge of a chemistry class, okay?"

Charles hadn't intended to, but his eyebrows still rise at the urgency of the request.

"Why not?"

"I tend to make things explode in science labs."

"A latent mutant ability?" Charles teases.

"Nah," says Sean. "Just a bad track record with Bunsen burners."

Charles offers his most reassuring smile.

"I'll bear that in mind."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Alex requires a different approach, and it's all Charles can do to keep his amusement masked when he sees the panic in the boy's eyes.

"I want to help," Alex says, "but not… I can't teach, okay? You put me in front of a classroom and I guarantee I'll make some poor kid cry. It'll be a total disaster."

"Alex, relax." Charles hadn't even gotten to finish his opening volley before Alex steamrolled ahead, conclusions jumped to in a way that proves he's been stewing on this point for several days at least. "You don't have to teach. You don't _have_ to do anything."

"But I want to help," Alex repeats. He sounds so plaintive—so impossibly young—that Charles flounders for a moment, regretting the pressure he's putting on Alex's shoulders.

He feels like he's delegating to children—an unfair comparison, really. He's not senior to any of these boys by more than a scant handful of years.

But guilty regret lingers—alongside the sudden, vivid knowledge that Charles shouldn't be alone in this. There should be someone standing beside him, helping him mold his school out of all this raw potential.

Charles shuts those thoughts down quickly and forces a smile when he says, "Alex, believe me. There will be more than enough work to go around. We'll have our hands full here, I promise you."

Alex laughs.

"You got that right," Alex says. "You _do_ realize what a mess this could be, don't you? I mean… all this? An entire _school_? It's huge."

"More than we can handle, you mean?" Charles asks cautiously.

Alex shakes his head and says, "No. You can handle it. You're Professor X, man. You can do anything. But still." He shrugs. "It's big."

"Big enough," Charles agrees, and retreats as gracefully as he can.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Hank has a tendency to work through several mealtimes at a stretch when left to his own devices, so Charles has taken to delivering food straight to Hank's lab now and then.

He's carrying a plateful of sandwiches when he walks in to find Hank sculpting a complex series of wires inside what has to be the next prototype for Cerebro. The helmet design is different, streamlined and sleek, but the purpose is unmistakable.

"Oh, Hank," Charles breathes, setting the plate on a table by the door and approaching the work in progress. "This is spectacular."

"It won't be ready to go for another week, at least," Hank says, apology heavy in his tone. "I've been experimenting with some new materials. I thought maybe I could create a more stable interface. But the testing process is—"

"Hank," Charles cuts in, mouth twisting wryly. "A week is fine. Two weeks if you need. However long it takes. I have complete faith in you."

"I just hate the thought of delaying your plans for this place," Hank says, twisting a red wire slightly more viciously than necessary. "Without students we're not much of a school."

"There's no rush," Charles says. It feels like a lie—stark contrast to the impatience humming through him, restless energy with no real outlet. There are so many mutants out there, so many people he could _help_ , and Charles can't touch them or find them or do _anything_ for them without Hank's equipment.

That's not strictly true, of course. He still has leads from his first time with Cerebro, stored safe and secure in his own mind now that the physical list is long gone. But that limited knowledge is already out of date. People don't stay stationary.

Charles is careful to keep his concerns off his face, and he gives Hank a reassuring smile.

"Besides," Charles says, pulling his scattered thoughts back into some semblance of order. "We're _also_ not much of a school without proper acknowledgment from the state, and there's still plenty of paperwork to sort."

There's less than he makes it sound like, actually. Filing for the necessary licenses was quite nearly the first thing Charles did on returning from Cuba, and only a few final hoops remain.

"What are you going to do in the meantime?" Hank asks, setting his work down carefully and adjusting his glasses on his face.

"I was thinking of going for a drive," Charles says. Even if he fails in his search—even if he can't find a single mutant on the list he's kept guarded so carefully in his head—it will be good to stay moving for a while.

The road will feel too quiet with only himself for company, but if the alternative is staying here—kicking his heels up and waiting for all the pieces to fall into place, unable to ignore the Erik-shaped piece missing from all his plans—

Charles can't spend another day that way. Or another night for that matter, though realistically he can't set out until morning. There are too many preparations to square away first.

Charles doesn't realize his focus has drifted off course until Hank touches his arm to draw his attention back. Blue fur grazes Charles's wrist, and he starts at the forceful surge of concern that touches his mind with the sparse contact.

"You shouldn't go alone," Hank says, dropping his hand back to his side and locking Charles with a piercing look.

Charles laughs, but it comes out sounding dry and brittle.

"Hank, I think I've got this under control."

"It's dangerous. I'm sure we'd all feel better knowing you've got someone watching your back. You might not be the only one looking for more mutants."

Charles's blood shivers coldly at the implication in Hank's words.

"You don't honestly think Erik would hurt me."

Hank cocks his head consideringly, yellow gaze piercing as he considers Charles's denial.

"No," Hank finally concedes. "Erik would never intentionally hurt you. But some of his associates might not share his interest in your wellbeing. And don't forget the American government would love to get their hands on you. Magneto isn't the only threat out there."

Charles sighs, exhaustion suddenly heavy in his bones. His chest tightens unpleasantly as the name 'Magneto' echoes ominously around his skull, and he closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You're right. You're absolutely right." When he opens his eyes again, Hank is still watching him.

"I'd go with you myself if I could," Hank says.

"No, you're right about that, too. Cerebro is too important to wait. You should stay here and complete your work."

Hank looks surprised at that—a response that vexes Charles for a moment, until the other side of Hank's logic catches up with him and leaves him fighting the urge to slap a hand against his forehead. Of course Hank can't accompany him. Blue fur, yellow eyes, claws like knives… sound backup, certainly, but likely to draw far too much attention.

"Hank…" Charles begins awkwardly, suddenly unsure what to say.

But Hank just huffs an uncomfortable gust of laughter and shakes his head.

"It didn't even occur to you, did it?"

"I'm sorry," Charles says, not even sure if he should be apologizing.

"Don't worry about it," Hank says, and suddenly he's smiling the expression baring his sharp teeth. "You should take Alex."

Charles's brow knits in confusion and he says, "Alex? I would've expected you to suggest Sean." Of the two, Sean is infinitely more likely to make a pleasant first impression. Alex is a good kid, but his default settings seem to be taunting and terse.

"Definitely Alex," Hank repeats. "I think he's going a little stir crazy. Besides, you can always threaten to lock him in the trunk if he doesn't stay on his best behavior."

Charles snorts, and feels a reluctant smile edging across his face.

"I know what this is really about," he says. "You just don't want to be stuck alone in this mansion with him, for however long I'm gallivanting around the country."

"That might have something to do with it," Hank hedges. "Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"I'll consider your advice," Charles says, already knowing he'll follow it. He waits an extra moment, just in case Hank has any final conclusions to offer, but when Hank simply settles back into his work Charles heads for the door.

"Oh, and, Hank?" Charles says with his hand on the doorframe. He glances over his shoulder and waits until he has Hank's attention. "Don't forget to eat." He indicates the plate of sandwiches with a glance, and then pulls the door open.

"Professor," Hank calls.

When Charles turns around, he finds Hank avoiding his eyes. He almost looks guilty, like he spoke out of turn—like he didn't mean to speak at all—and fluttering at the periphery of Charles's perception are fragments. Names and images. _Raven_. And _Erik_. And, cutting deeper than the rest, _Not your fault_.

Charles blanches at the thought of being so easily deciphered, but he holds his tongue and resists the urge to retreat.

Finally, Hank speaks.

"Be careful," he says without meeting Charles's eyes.

"I will," Charles promises, and disappears through the door.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik digs the Brotherhood's first permanent base straight into the root of a mountain.

He doesn't do it alone. Their ranks have already swelled by some half a dozen mutants—Azazel and Riptide both have some connections they apparently opted not to reveal to Shaw—and a couple of the new recruits have a way with explosions.

But there's enough iron in the earth that Erik can handle all the finer details himself, once he has enough space to work with. The facility he designs is sleek and efficient, with just enough twists and turns to present a challenge to anyone who might come snooping inside. There are private quarters well in excess of their current numbers—Erik has plans for the future, after all—and other space crafted expansively for more practical purposes.

Science labs. Control centers. An amphitheater that looks almost like a natural formation in the stone and makes his voice echo with the power of thunder.

"It's beautiful," Mystique says when he finally shows her the entire facility.

"It will suffice," Erik says. He's not sure why completion of the project leaves him feeling wrong and empty inside.

That's not true. He knows exactly why these sweeping corridors and sculpted ceilings feel empty.

When Mystique's hand settles on his arm, a gesture that conveys quiet concern, Erik shakes off the touch and steps farther down the corridor.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Beneath the mountain, within the confines of the Brotherhood's hidden facility, Erik doesn't have to wear his helmet.

The principles of the helmet were simple enough to reconstruct on a larger scale, and he's designed the entire base to be impervious to telepathic interference. Charles won't be worming his way through these walls. Or Miss Frost, for that matter, wherever she is.

But the helmet is still never far from reach.

It's sitting on the edge of his desk now, in fact. The desk is a monstrous, metallic piece of furniture that takes up a significant amount of space. It dominates even in the wide room that serves as Erik's office and day-to-day power center.

His cape lies discarded in neat folds over the tall back of his chair. For all that the garment serves a practical enough purpose—edges lined with thinly threaded aluminum, because one can never have too much metal on hand—there's little reason for him to wear it here.

Mystique insists the outfit looks ridiculous. Erik has promised to take her opinion under advisement, though in fact he has no intention of altering the ensemble to something less flashy.

Erik's not considering the cape at the moment, though. Or the helmet resting innocuously in its corner. He's pacing and doing his best not to think about _anything_ , because his thoughts keep twisting in directions he's trying to avoid.

Directions that inevitably lead him to Charles.

A knock at the door draws his attention, and Erik pauses in his pacing.

"What?" he demands sharply. The closed door is indication enough that he doesn't want to be disturbed. The number of people who might risk trying to get his attention is slim, and he's not much surprised when the door clicks and swings open and Mystique steps through.

"I didn't say you could come in," he mutters as she closes the door behind her. But there's no anger in his voice, and the wry comprehension on Mystique's face makes it obvious she's not intimidated.

"You didn't say to stay the hell out, either," she observes. She crosses the room on silent feet, and stops beside him. It puts her near the wide desk, and she leans on it, crossing her arms and locking him in a considering look.

"Was there something you needed?" Erik asks impatiently.

"You've been hiding in here for three days," she says, arching an eyebrow. "The others are all convinced you're working on some brilliant, extravagant plan to find more mutants and further the cause."

"But you know better," Erik guesses dryly.

"I know _you_ ," she says. "And I know you should be chomping at the bit to tour the finished science labs, big plans or no."

She speaks with the same graceful ease that accompanies her every movement these days. She's comfortable in her own skin, confident and dangerous and razor sharp. It makes him proud. But it also leaves him feeling like he's at a disadvantage. Mystique has changed enough in a few short weeks that Erik has moments where he's not sure he knows her at all.

She's plenty familiar now, though, when she gives him a sad smile and says, "I miss him, too." More Raven than Mystique, but with an unapologetic directness that she never would've demonstrated at Westchester.

"I don't know what you're—"

"Yes you do," Mystique interrupts, too gently. "And you're right. He _should_ be here."

Erik growls—a low, hurt sound that rumbles in his chest—and turns his back on Mystique. He can't hang onto any anger at her for calling him out, though. She's right. He _has_ been hiding. Putting off the inevitable because, on some level, he still thinks— _knows_ —he shouldn't have to do this alone.

He hears a shiver of sound behind him, a cascading flutter he knows well by now, and he wonders what Mystique is up to.

"I know how you feel about him," Mystique says, and Erik freezes. The words are spoken in a masculine voice. British, proper and soft.

 _Charles_.

Erik whirls, fury fracturing in his blood, but the sight of Charles—of _Mystique_ , whatever madness she's up to—perched casually on the edge of his desk draws him up short. Something in Erik's chest winds tight, and that's not Charles. He _knows_ that's not Charles. But he can't look away.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asks in a strangled breath.

Charles's face tilts to the side, mouth pressing into a thin line as though he's considering something weighty and uncertain. And then Charles— _Mystique_ , Erik reminds himself again—is pushing off of the desk and moving towards him. She's even moving like Charles, every step and mannerism mirrored to perfection, and Erik finds himself frozen in place as the short distance between them vanishes and Charles leans up and in.

Charles's lips are soft when they press to Erik's, and they part invitingly. Erik's rational brain scrambles, trying to keep up, but he's already surging forward. He's already grabbing for Charles, dragging him close, threading the fingers of his right hand through Charles's chaotic hair.

Charles makes an eager sound, low in his throat, and presses forward, welcoming Erik's touch.

Reality reasserts itself with a jarring shudder, spurred on by nothing but the knowledge that this isn't real. This isn't Charles in his arms. There's no disconcerting brush of Charles's powerful mind against his thoughts, the way Erik knows damn well there should be.

He pushes Mystique away more roughly than he means to, and surprise lands her hard and graceless on the ground. She's still wearing Charles's face—Charles's limbs sprawled awkwardly on the smooth floor at Erik's feet—and looking up at him with a stare that pierces straight into Erik's soul.

" _Don't_ ," Erik growls. "Don't ever do that again. Stop it _now_."

He watches with an unpleasant mingling of relief and regret as Mystique's form cascades smoothly back to her natural, naked blue. Her expression shifts, now that he can see _her_ face again, and there's something awkwardly apologetic in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says. Her tone is contrite. She knows she overstepped, and Erik is confident he'll never face a repeat of this incident.

He doesn't voice any words of forgiveness. He's not entirely sure he _does_ forgive her. But he offers her a hand, and she accepts it, lets him pull her back to her feet. Erik meets her eyes for a long moment, but has to drop his gaze to the floor before he can ask the question gnawing at his insides.

"Do you think he knows?"

He shouldn't be so terrified of the answer. Charles is no longer a part of Erik's life. What difference does it make if he knows about the fantasies—the hunger Erik has been harboring?

"I know he doesn't," Mystique answers softly.

The anxiety twisting in Erik's chest dissipates abruptly, and he exhales a relieved breath.

"Good," he says tightly.

"Come see the science labs," Mystique urges, stepping closer. ' _Stop moping in your corner_ ,' she means. Erik snorts and shakes his head. He feels dry and wrung out, but he has no excuse to refuse.

"Lead the way," he says, gesturing towards the door and finally following her into the hall.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Weeks tumble into months, not quite smoothly but with the inevitable force of passing time, and Charles is almost surprised to find his school coming together around him.

Even after Hank finishes reconstructing Cerebro, they've got barely more than a dozen students—and of those, ages range from small and scared to a handful of cranky teenagers. But for all that they remain few, the new arrivals seem to settle in more quickly—and more comfortably—than Charles could have dreamed.

The school is a safe place. That's the point. And all of these children, once inside the walls of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters, can finally live as they are. No more hiding.

There are a handful of adults, too, though fewer by far. Mutants who need nothing from the school itself, but whom Charles has managed to convince that his dream is a viable one. People willing to join them, to sign on and help protect the children and the fragile hope Charles is trying to build. To help protect the humans, despite the stubborn animosity that only seems to rise with the world's growing awareness of mutant kind.

It's only a matter of time, Charles insists. It's only a question of making them understand, one moment of peace at a time.

Of course, given the stance of Charles Xavier and his X-Men—a name that seems to have stuck somehow—it's inevitable that they keep coming into conflict with Erik's Brotherhood of Mutants.

Erik. Not Magneto. Charles can't bring himself to think of his friend by the chosen name that flashes in the papers, the public, the minds of terrified government officials.

Even as Charles and his team interfere with one scheme after another—turning back violence, rescuing ungrateful politicians, defusing literal explosions on more than one occasion—he can't bring himself to think of Erik as anything other than a friend. It doesn't matter how many attacks they deflect, or how many times Charles throws himself into battle alongside the members of his team—Beast, Banshee, Havoc, others. He never stops wishing Erik would stop sending minions and step forward himself.

Erik may be more dangerous than a dozen of the man's strongest allies combined, but Charles still feels the irrational tug of hope telling him that if he could just _reach_ Erik, this is one tide that could still be turned.

Erik called him naïve once. He might've had a point.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles knows even before they disembark from the jet that this time will be different. This is one Erik won't be sitting out.

The rumors involve development of an ugly virus—one designed to target mutated genes. To leave humans untouched.

Charles knows—from Cerebro, and the high-ranking minds he's gone rummaging around in along the way—that it isn't just rumor. He and his X-Men would be here to investigate regardless of Erik's inevitable interest in this facility.

Charles may be intent on working peacefully with the humans, but there are times distance and anonymity aren't protection enough.

They've landed near the forest's edge, outside a discreet government complex. It's small. Relatively innocuous. From outside it looks like nothing more dangerous than a dockside warehouse.

But inside are elaborate laboratories, and some of the U.S. government's most brutally brilliant minds.

If Charles had his way, they'd be in and out unnoticed, the virus and all of its related documentation destroyed before anyone even knew they were here.

But as his foot touches the ground and he takes his hand off the side of the jet, an explosion rattles, near enough to light the midnight sky.

Erik is already here.

Charles can't sense him, of course. He'll be wearing that helmet, if he's present at all—and Charles knows somehow that he is. This is one mission Erik won't leave to his underlings.

"Move!" Charles shouts to his team, already dashing forward, flashes of yellow and blue uniforms in his peripheral vision as his people keep pace—led by one particularly bright flash of yellow and blue as Beast streaks forward ahead of the pack.

There are more explosions. There are humans with guns, and security coordinating strategic retreats—a lake behind the facility, and boats waiting to speed anyone vital to safety. Charles incapacitates as many as he can without harming them, but already he feels the sharp jolt of too many deaths around him. Not his own people, but powerful sensations just the same. Every death feels personal, no matter how many Charles experiences.

He'd block them out if he could, but that would mean sacrificing his control over the living minds he's managed to harness. It would mean more deaths, even if Charles wouldn't feel them, and so he doesn't block anything out as he moves deeper into the facility.

He's alone now. His team has spread out, competent and quick, and Charles keeps his fingers at his temple and sends an urgent inquiry.

' _Hank, where are you_?'

' _In the main lab_ ,' Hank returns. ' _Magneto's people were already here. I think they've taken the virus samples. They've destroyed everything, Professor. Everyone down here is dead_.'

Charles closes his eyes, flinching, but has to open them again quickly in order to keep moving. He can feel panic coming from the boats at the other end of the building. There are still living people in danger.

' _Scavenge what information you can_ ,' Charles orders. ' _And make sure to destroy anything they missed_.' Though he doubts anything is left to scavenge or destroy. The Brotherhood never does anything halfway.

' _Where will you be_?' Hank returns, sounding apprehensive.

' _Erik won't have stopped with the labs. He'll be after every last one of these people. I have to find him_.'

' _Be careful_ ,' Hank sends, then goes quiet, leaving Charles to focus on speeding his pace, navigating the narrow corridors at a run.

The corridor ends abruptly at a single door thrown wide, and Charles finds himself standing suddenly outdoors. The wooden slats of a sturdy dock thud beneath his feet as he draws to an abrupt stop, and he turns to face the door he just exited through. He reaches out with his mind—feels the boats pulling distant enough that he has trouble tracking them, which means they're nearly far enough to be safe. He can feel ongoing skirmishes within the building, too. Humans and mutants fighting each other, mutants fighting amongst themselves. The unmistakable tang of violence.

And then, moving towards him with alarming speed, he feels a void that leaves him stunned and breathless. Emptiness surrounded by the indecipherable crackle of power. Unmistakable.

Charles steps forward, back into the corridor. He yanks the door shut behind him, locks it with a resounding clang. Locks and deadbolts are nothing to Erik, but Charles simply stands there in front of the door and braces himself.

He doesn't have long to wait. Erik's footsteps echo audibly along the floor, and then he's _there_ , bright colors in the flickering hallway light. Purple. Maroon. That damned helmet that makes Charles want to crawl out of his own skin.

"Get out of my way, Charles," Erik says. His voice is a low, threatening growl, but Charles isn't afraid.

"No," he says. Shakes his head. Clenches his fists into hands at his sides. It's not a battle stance, but he'll be ready if it comes to that. He's learned a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat in the past couple months.

"I don't want to hurt you," Erik says, fingers curling into fists and making the metal behind Charles squeak and grind in protest. "But I will if I have to."

"No you won't," Charles says, because he doesn't believe it for a second. "And since the only way you're getting to those boats is through me—"

"God _damn it_ , Charles!" Erik bellows, storming forward as though prepared to take Charles apart with his bare hands. He stops short, though. Fury vibrates through his entire frame, but he doesn't lay a hand on Charles. "Their primary researchers are on those boats. The people capable of reproducing the experiments, of isolating the virus. If you don't let me kill them, it will only be a matter of time before they start all over again."

"I know," Charles says calmly. Sadly. It's not a pleasant choice, but this is the only way he knows how to make it.

"Let me pass," Erik says in a deceptively quiet voice.

"No," Charles says.

Erik's eyes close, though the helmet makes it difficult to read his expression in the stark shadows and unsteady light. When he storms into action, it's sudden and jarring, and Charles gasps at the wordless shout, at the sight of Erik's body contorting as he manipulates the surrounding magnetic fields and uses the metal support beams to tear a hole in the wall _beside_ the door.

Somehow Charles hadn't considered that possibility.

He ducks aside, raising his arms to shield his face from the twisting, flying debris. He's not quite quick enough—a sharp piece of cement hits him in the face and slices across his cheek. He feels the sting on a delay, seconds after the initial impact, and he gasps, holding his gloved hand to the cut.

When he raises his eyes the corridor is empty, and Charles curses and follows Erik the only direction he could have gone—through the hole he cracked straight through the wall.

Charles half expects to find Erik gone when he emerges—vanished in pursuit of his escaping targets.

But Erik is simply standing there at the edge of the dock. Shoulders tight beneath his cape, hands clenched into furious fists at his sides. Charles doesn't need to be able to read his thoughts to pick up on the frustrated rage pouring off him.

"Erik," he says, and realizes only an instant later what a mistake it is to speak.

Erik is on him immediately, so fast Charles barely registers that he should try to duck and evade, and there's not enough time. Erik's hands are tight on his wrists, twisting and shoving and backing Charles against an undamaged portion of wall. Charles grunts at the impact, then gasps as the unyielding weight of Erik's body pins him in place.

"I could have reached them in time to _stop_ them," Erik growls, breath ghosting warm over Charles's face.

"You mean kill them," Charles says softly.

The rage doesn't bleed out of Erik's body, but his expression softens fractionally.

"The fact that you're here at all means you know damn well what they were up to," Erik says, clearly struggling to modulate his voice into a semblance of calm. "It's them or us, Charles. How can you still not see that?"

"I couldn't just _let_ you kill them, Erik. The means we choose to employ are every bit as important as the goal they accomplish." Then, shifting a little—tilting his head back to better meet Erik's eyes—he says, "You didn't have to let them go. You could've gone through me easily enough."

"You idiot," Erik breathes, staring at him—gaze flicking to the stinging cut on Charles's cheek before raising to recapture his eyes. "You unmitigated _fool_. How can you possess such a brilliant mind and still understand so little."

It's answer enough. Charles already knew Erik wouldn't—perhaps _couldn't_ —hurt him. But Erik's accusations are as blatant a confession as Charles could've hoped for.

Charles pitches his voice soft and cautious as he says, "It doesn't have to be this way, Erik. I'm still your friend. There's still a place for you at the school."

Erik barks an incredulous laugh, short and cutting, and then gapes at Charles in blatant disbelief.

"After everything I've done," Erik says.

"My friend, you seem to be forgetting that I know you. I know you would never let any harm come to the children." Charles squares his jaw defiantly, feels his pulse hum at Erik's unflinching proximity. "I would have you beside me protecting them if I could."

"It's _you_ I want safe," Erik blurts. The vehemence in his voice catches Charles off guard, and Charles feels his own brows knit in confusion. Erik's focus is intense, his eyes bright and sharp as they stare Charles down. Erik's fingers shift minutely on Charles's wrists, and the pinning weight of Erik's body feels suddenly and inexplicably different.

Something flashes in Erik's eyes. Charles can't decipher the look, but it makes his breath catch in his chest just the same. It makes his skin feel too tight, his hands itch to _do_ something, and he twists his arms restlessly in Erik's grasp.

He doesn't mean to speak, but the words sneak out of him anyway.

"Come home, Erik."

Erik's entire body snaps taut at the words. The hands circling Charles's wrists tighten painfully, then abruptly release him as Erik steps back and away.

"Erik, please," Charles says, letting his arms fall slowly to his sides but not daring to push away from the wall. He doesn't trust his legs to hold him unaided.

"Goodbye, Charles."

Suddenly the teleporter is there, in a burst of crimson smoke. Erik exchanges a quick glance with him, then levels one last indecipherable look at Charles.

In the next instant, Charles is alone on the dock. He can hear the Blackbird's jet engines powering up in the distance, Hank almost certainly at the controls—locked onto Charles's position via some trick of the yellow suits they all wear, and coming to collect him before the government can send reinforcements.

Charles's legs give out beneath him, and he slides slowly down the wall.

Somehow, he feels even emptier now than he did the first time he watched Erik teleport away on a battle-mangled beach in Cuba.

Charles raises two fingers to his temple and seeks out Beast's mind.

' _Hank_?' he calls, even though the sound of the engines is already growing louder. ' _It's time to go home_.'

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The injured have been seen to—there aren't many. Erik has to concede that they made it in and out with so little damage, at least in part thanks to Charles's interference. It really would be useful to have a telepath among the ranks of the Brotherhood, even if the odds of finding one on par with Charles are next to nothing.

The injured have been seen to, the necessary repairs made to gear and equipment that suffered damage in the fighting, and all Erik wants is to be left alone.

But he didn't close his office door fast enough, and instead he finds himself cornered by the irate ranting of one Gunther Bain—a useful enough ally but fast on his way to overstepping Erik's patience. What little patience Erik _does_ still possess quickly unravels when Gunther—young, petulant, little more than a stupid child in the big scheme of things—says Charles Xavier's name.

"You could have killed him," Gunther is saying now, heedless of the way his words are tightening Erik's shoulders and darkening his expression. "The X-Men would be nothing without him. They could never stand in our way without Xavier. And you let the opportunity slip through your fingers."

Something in Erik's chest snaps cold, and without moving a muscle he summons a coil of metal from one of the ornate light fixtures on the wall and wraps it tightly around Gunther's throat, dragging him sharply back against the wall. He moves so quickly that Gunther has no time to defend himself, and Erik takes a calm step forward as Gunther wriggles uncomfortably in place.

The cord of metal isn't twisted tightly enough to strangle him, but it's tight enough to be uncomfortable, and the threat is clear enough.

"Listen to me very carefully," Erik says. His voice is chilly, and Gunther's eyes widen in fear as Erik continues, "I will only say this once. Spread the word when we're finished here. Clearly I've been remiss in communicating this rather vital point."

He takes another step closer, standing now barely a foot away from where Gunther has wisely gone still.

"I do not intend to kill Charles Xavier. I do not wish to see him hurt."

"But he's—" Gunther tries to interrupt, voice straining.

"Constantly interfering with our objectives? Yes. I know. Nevertheless, anyone who harms him will be answerable to me." Erik's face twists into a vicious smile, all teeth and pointed edges. "And Gunther?" he adds, almost as an afterthought. "My response to such an affront will not be pleasant." He tightens the metal around Gunther's throat minutely—just enough to make his point unmistakable—and then releases him so suddenly the young man falls sharply to his knees.

"Get out," Erik says calmly, turning his back and taking several measured steps in the direction of his desk.

In his peripheral vision he sees a flash of blue in the doorway, Mystique leaning against the doorjamb with her arms crossed. Erik wonders how long she's been watching. He doesn't have to wonder if she approves of his little speech—he can take that much as a given.

Gunther moves quickly once he regains his feet, dashing towards the door and ducking past her.

"Idiot," Mystique mutters as he passes. She says it softly, but the insult just reaches Erik's ears, and an unpleasant smile twists across his face.


	2. Chapter 2

"You aren't sleeping enough," Alex says.

The sound of his voice breaking into the silence doesn't startle Charles—even distracted and staring into the murky, gray distance, he's too aware of the minds around him to be truly caught off guard by Alex's approach.

"Good morning to you, too," Charles says, tossing a wry smile over his shoulder before returning his attention to the dim horizon.

He's leaning on the low wall beyond the estate's gravel drive, the mansion a sprawling shadow just behind him. He's not staring at the silhouette of the enormous satellite dish in the distance—its presence is just an unintended coincidence. Charles isn't even sure why his morning walk brought him here.

Alex snorts and moves to stand at Charles's elbow, gravel crunching audibly beneath his feet.

"I don't think you can call it 'morning' until the sun is actually up."

"Here now," Charles disagrees. "The sun's _practically_ up." It's true. The sky is soft with predawn gray, enough hinting light to see by—otherwise how could Charles make out the satellite dish he is so decisively _not_ looking at?

Alex grunts in quiet disapproval, but doesn't try to argue the point.

"What are you doing out here at this hour?" Charles asks. It comes a little too close to acknowledging Alex's accusation, but he's curious enough to risk it.

"One of the kids had a nightmare," Alex answers with an unconvincing shrug. "Thought I saw you through the window after I got him calmed down. Did you even bother going to bed last night? You were talking Sean's ear off when I turned in, and that was already one in the morning."

"Yes, Alex, I _did_ sleep last night." For about four hours, give or take, but Charles sees no need to divulge such specifics. "Your concern is unnecessary, I assure you."

"It's not just _my_ concern," Alex protests, and Charles can feel the weight of his worried stare. "Hell, I get it. I've been there." There's an uncomfortable familiarity in his tone—a quiet bitterness that says he really _does_ understand, that he's not a stranger to the kinds of messy regret that leave sleep little more than an unpleasant necessity. Charles doesn't meet his eyes as Alex continues, "But even _Beast_ is worried. And you know how hard it is to pull his head out of his lab results and make him notice anything else."

Charles flinches, because much as he would like to pretend otherwise, Alex has a point. If he's managed to raise Hank's concern, perhaps he hasn't been walking the line as subtly as he thought.

Alex inches closer beside him, not quite close enough to bump their arms together.

"I know it's none of my business," Alex says. "But you've been different since we tangled with Magneto face-to-face."

"His name is _Erik_ ," Charles snaps, more sharply than he intends. Alex grimaces at the reprimand. "His name is Erik," Charles repeats more quietly. "And there is still good in him."

"You can't save everyone."

"I don't need to save everyone," Charles says, though a rebellious pulse in his blood gives the lie to his denial.

"Just him," Charles adds after an extended pause. Because the thought of spending a lifetime like this is untenable. Not just _without_ Erik, but constantly opposed, straining to tear him down while they both try—and perhaps ultimately fail—to avoid hurting each other. It's enough to make his insides twist unpleasantly, and though Charles tries to blank out his expression he must fail miserably.

Worry flashes painfully bright, not just on Alex's face but along the unguarded surface of his thoughts, and Charles slams his strongest shields into place so suddenly his entire body trembles.

It stops him hearing Alex's thoughts, at least.

The expression on Alex's face is still clear enough, though. Awkward concern, and an uncertain discomfort as he stuffs his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet. The crunch of gravel that accompanies the movement shouldn't be such a jarring sound, but it sends an unpleasant shiver up Charles's spine.

"If you want to talk about it—" Alex starts, but Charles doesn't give him the opportunity to finish the offer.

"Thank you," he cuts in. It takes conscious effort to keep his voice even, his words smooth and unstilted. "Truly, Alex. I appreciate your concern. But there's nothing to talk about."

"Fine," Alex says. Charles doesn't need telepathy to hear the frustration that colors the boy's voice. Alex doesn't bother making excuses or goodbyes. He simply turns and retreats, leaving Charles to realize that somewhere along the line, while his attention was still turned harshly inward, the sun has finally made its appearance.

He turns from the brightening dawn and walks along the drive, away from the mansion. The air is chillier than he realized, and he slips his hands into his pockets. His pulse rushes inexplicably, and he tries to shut away the sense of being attacked. Charles knows Alex meant no harm. Logically, Alex wasn't even out of line. His concern was genuine. His offer of a willing ear the same.

But Charles still feels on edge, and try as he might he can't get his heart rate to calm.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

He's in New York City when it happens. Sean is with him. Alex is too busy at the school, helping to acclimate the newest, youngest recruits to the rules and opportunities of the estate, and there's nothing special about this trip. There's nothing to distinguish it from any other venture into the capital. They're not even here recruiting.

It's research that has drawn Charles's attention. A genetics lab, and the promise of a full tour of the facilities. A chance to chat with the heads of half a dozen projects one-on-one, and to poke around discreetly amid the kernels of information they won't necessarily intend to share.

The building is impressive, even from the outside. Tall and svelte, and glinting with glass all the way to the top. It's not the tallest building on the block, but to Charles it shines the brightest, and a quiet smile of anticipation curls at the corner of his mouth.

Sunlight sparks off the glass and makes him squint, and beside him Sean slouches, with hands stuffed in his pockets.

"You sure you don't want me to go in with you?" Sean asks. His tone is game enough, but the boy isn't doing much to guard his thoughts. Charles has no trouble discerning just how much fun Sean won't be having on an extended tour of complex genetics research facilities.

"It's fine, Sean. Stay close, though. We shouldn't allow ourselves to become too far separated."

"I'll stick to the square," Sean says, indicating the surrounding city block with a nod. It's not quite a park, but there's the hint of green, and a fountain, and plenty of places to sit. Shade and food vendors and the casual racket of the populace.

"I'll call you if I need anything," Charles says, gesturing towards his temple.

"Got it," Sean says, and wanders away. He doesn't go far. Even once he's out of sight behind Charles, Charles can still feel his mind nearby.

He barely has time to register that something is wrong—a startling, cacophonous silence amidst the rumble of passing thoughts. Then heavy footsteps, moving fast—too fast—several pairs of booted feet moving towards him, and he's spinning in place but he's not turning fast enough—

He hears Sean's voice, both in his head and in his ears, shouting " _Professor_!" and then—

Nothing.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik isn't in his office.

He's in his quarters—sparse, comfortable and completely private. No one ever comes for him here. He's made it clear that only in the severest of emergencies is he to be troubled when he is in his private quarters, and so far such an event hasn't transpired.

Even Mystique doesn't come near him in these rooms. She knows he only comes here to rest and to be alone. The bulk of his waking hours are spent in his far more approachable office, and the sanctity of his private chambers has never been tested.

Which means that, after nearly a full year without such incident, the knock at his door pulls him instantly from a light doze and tells him something is terribly wrong.

He stands quickly and doesn't spare a moment's consideration for his relative state of undress. He's wearing pants, at least. Anything else is unimportant in the face of whatever disaster has prompted the pounding on his door.

He swings the door open with a gesture before he's actually close enough to touch it, and Mystique steps into the room.

Her expression is grim and furious. Erik is reasonably sure he's never seen anything quite like it on her face.

"Something's happened," she says.

"Tell me." He's close enough now to shove the door closed with his hand. His blood feels turbulent, his legs unsteady.

"I'm sure you've always known I stayed in touch with Beast," she says in a low, confessional tone.

"I suspected," Erik says. "It didn't seem to warrant further investigation." Especially when the others would never understand. Better to let Mystique treat it like a secret. Better to keep the lines of communication open, however tenuously. Erik knows he was never going to be in a position to do so himself. "What happened?" he demands, when Mystique doesn't immediately continue.

She looks stricken for a moment, like her voice is stuck somewhere in her chest, and dreadful certainty squirms beneath Erik's skin.

"It's Charles," Erik whispers. _Dead_ , his cruelest fears supply. Or dying. Erik suddenly can't breathe, and it's all he can do to focus on the words that finally come out of Mystique's mouth.

"He's missing," she says. "There was an ambush. Banshee was close, but not close enough. He couldn't stop them."

" _Who_?" Erik snarls, vehement rage lighting in his chest. "Who did this?" Erik will kill them as slowly as he can. He'll tear them to bloody, tattered pieces and maybe— _maybe_ then—he'll let them die.

Mystique, still looking shaken, says, "Do you honestly think Beast would've given me this much information if anyone knew the answer to that question?"

Erik curses inwardly. Maybe he'll kill Beast, too, while he's at it. How _dare_ he presume—

But that rage is baseless. Erik chafes at the knowledge, but he can't refute it entirely. He's hardly an ally to whom the X-Men can turn for aid.

Erik pauses for a necessary moment, forcing himself still—forcing a calm he doesn't feel. He closes his eyes, draws a deliberately controlled breath into his lungs and then exhales just as slowly.

When he opens his eyes, Mystique has managed to reclaim some composure of her own, and her back straightens attentively.

"Summon my generals," Erik says darkly. "We need to move quickly."

If Charles is still alive—and he is, of course he is, he has to be—they may have limited time for action, and Erik doesn't intend to waste a single moment.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik assembles his top mutants in the long, barren briefing room he designed for meetings exactly like this.

He sits at the head of a long table and gives orders quickly. Viciously. They aren't complicated instructions at this point.

Find him. Use every resource. Waste no unnecessary time. Report directly with any information garnered, no matter how insignificant it may seem.

There's silence around the table when Erik finishes speaking.

Most of the faces looking back at him are devoted, determined, focused. Shade—a surly but practical woman who has long since proven her skills at useful strategy—looks less than satisfied with Erik's instructions. Her dark hair, short and severe, barely moves when she tilts her head back, and her eyebrows arch high on her forehead.

"I mean no disrespect," she says into the subsequent lull. "But why should we invest so much time and resource in rescuing a man who is, for all practical purposes, our enemy?"

Erik's fury pulses instant and cold, and the metal table creaks threateningly. Several of the generals seated closest to him flinch. Azazel is the exception. He raises an eyebrow and locks Shade with a look of morbid fascination.

Mystique, standing just behind and beside Erik, stiffens in his peripheral vision.

"Mystique," Erik says in a low voice that still manages to carry to the entire room. "Get her out of my sight before I do something… regrettable."

Mystique's entire body tightens a fraction further, and maybe she was the wrong person to address his order to. He can almost feel the rage pouring off her, sharp mirror to his own surge of emotion. Once the two are alone in that corridor, Shade will be no match for her.

"Allow me," Azazel interrupts, standing abruptly enough to startle everyone—including Erik and Mystique.

He vanishes in his usual puff of red, reappearing at the far end of the table and setting a hand on Shade's shoulder. An instant later, another burst of red mist, and both mutants are gone from the room.

Erik waits a moment. Just long enough for his rage to ebb and his hands to unclench from the fists he hadn't even realized he'd twisted them into. When he's sure his voice will sound steady and civil, he finally speaks.

"Move," he says. "Quickly."

His generals scatter, vanishing out the door, and Erik remains in his seat, striving for an unattainable calm.

"We'll find him," Mystique says, stubbornly confident. Her hand is warm on his shoulder, and Erik closes his eyes.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles wakes in an empty room.

It takes him the space of a heartbeat to figure out it's not just the room that's empty.

Panic twists inside him, distracting and disorienting, and it takes a long moment for him to calm his mind enough to figure out what's wrong.

His pulse is too loud in his ears. His breath is tight with receding panic. He's physically restrained somehow, tight bindings holding his wrists flat beside him, and he can't speak for the impeding pressure of some soft material in his mouth, gagging him.

But none of that is what's really wrong.

His head spins, the room pitching unevenly despite the fact that he's immobilized on his back, and he feels like he's going to throw up.

For the first time he can remember, there's no murmur of peripheral minds in his head. There's no ricochet of surface thoughts, no quiet river of background noise in his brain signaling the presence of others.

For the first time in Charles's life, he's alone inside his own head, and the shock jars him sharply, setting the panic loose again.

Charles screams. The sound comes out muffled and wrong from the gag, and he doesn't even know if there's anyone near enough to hear.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik paces the length of his office, vicious movements and jarring steps. He hasn't set foot in this room for going on two weeks, so vehemently has he been searching for _any_ sign of Charles, and now that he's here he doesn't know what to do with himself.

He's a ragged mess of excess energy, fear and fury and fracturing control, and he can count on one hand—on one fucking _finger_ —the number of times he's felt this helpless.

The walls creak unsteadily, responding to the minutest shift of Erik's fingers, the sharp twist of his mood. He hasn't even taken his helmet off yet. Or his cape, which Mystique hasn't teased him about since Charles went missing. Or the gloves, which for once leave him too warm but he refuses to take them off. He doesn't intend to stay here long.

Just long enough to confer with his generals. Just long enough to regroup and start again.

Azazel isn't due before him for another twenty minutes, so Erik startles when he hears a sharp knock. He strides forward on impatient legs, anxious for news, and throws the door wide.

He's surprised to find both Azazel and Mystique standing in the corridor.

"What is it?" he demands, not taking his hand off the door.

"We have company," Mystique says. "She says she has information." Then, indicating Erik's helmet with a flick of her eyes, she adds, "You might want to leave that on."

Erik nods immediately, barely taking the time to process the information. Mystique turns to Azazel and nods in a way that almost feels like mimicry, though of course Erik knows better. Azazel vanishes, and an instant later returns with a familiar figure on his arm.

"Miss Frost," Erik says, masking his surprise. He steps aside and gestures towards the room behind him. "Do come in."

"Thank you," she says, striding past him with dignified grace. Her top barely covers anything, and her skirt covers less, but Erik doesn't bother to ask if she's warm enough.

He gives Mystique a meaningful look before he closes the door—one that she'll know means to start calling the troops home, the game is about to change—and then turns to regard his guest.

"You're looking for Charles Xavier," she says. No hedging, no preamble. Erik takes a step away from the door and inclines his head, appreciative and impressed.

"What do you know?" he asks. "And what do you want in exchange for the information?" Because he knows how these things work. There's no need to threaten her. She wouldn't be here if she didn't want to bargain.

"There's nothing I want in exchange," she says. Erik blinks at her in confused surprise.

"You're offering me the information out of the goodness of your heart?" he asks, tone dark and skeptical.

"Not exactly." She tilts her head just slightly, a considering look in her eyes, but even now she doesn't waste his time. She lets the pause linger the barest of moments before she explains, "I got wind of your little rescue attempt. Very noble. But I don't like being in anyone's debt."

"You're hardly indebted to me," Erik points out. "My attempt came weeks too late and was ultimately a failure."

"Just the same," Frost says. "I know where you can find him. Do you want the information, or do you want to talk me out of telling you what I know?"

"Tell me everything," Erik says, stepping forward and indicating a chair beside his desk.

She sits and says, "It'd be faster to show you."

Erik smiles, vicious and unamused, and says, "I appreciate the visit, but I'm afraid I can't trust you that far. You'll have to fill me in the old-fashioned way. But please, continue. As quickly as possible."

"They have him in Alaska," she says. "At a facility just west of Wainwright. Its designation goes beyond top secret."

Erik belatedly takes a seat in the chair beside her, and leans closer with his pulse hammering in his ears.

"Who is 'they'?" he asks.

Frost smiles, but the expression is cold as she answers, "The sort of people I would warn anyone else not to tangle with."

"And what advice do you have for _me_?" he presses darkly.

Her smile turns several degrees cooler.

"Kill them all."

"I think I can manage that," Erik says. "Now. Tell me everything you know."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles has long since stopped screaming, but the null space inside his head makes keeping quiet a conscious struggle.

He's no longer restrained, or gagged for that matter. They almost treat him like a guest, in fact—except when he pisses off the wrong guard, but he's getting better at avoiding such moments. The room is slightly better than a prison cell, though small and confining. The floor is unyielding tile. The bed is bolted down, but at least it's a genuine bed. Mattress, wafer-thin pillows. No blankets. They're probably worried he'd find a way to do something stupid with them—though even in those first couple days of silence, Charles never considered such possibilities.

There are injections. They come at irregular intervals, always with an extra set of hands holding him down, and Charles is sure he has the injections to thank for the impenetrable fog of silence cutting him off from the world of outside minds.

Whatever's in those syringes, it must change from dose to dose. He's left woozy sometimes, floating and disconnected others, wired and sharp or lost and loose, with no predictable pattern.

It's like they're experimenting as they go.

He hears a memory of Erik's voice telling him, ' _What an adorable lab rat you make, Charles_ ,' and the memory takes him from a low chuckle to violent hysterics. They sedate him then, and Charles is twisted around so tightly that the sense of drifting into oblivion is almost a relief.

 _Erik_ , he thinks as the last threads of consciousness drift away.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They're not with the government—not officially, anyway—but Erik's never been big on plausible deniability.

What started as a covert operation—government funding kicking off a program to investigate the mutant "threat" after what nearly happened on a beach in Cuba—has gone off the roadmap and so deep under cover there's no one left to answer to.

A man named Terrance Crowley is in charge. He's got partners, scientists, underlings. As far as Erik is concerned, every single one of them is culpable. They're all going to die painfully. Crowley worst of all if Erik has his way.

They have a handful of other mutants sequestered in their facilities—guinea pigs and test subjects for their defense efforts—but Charles is special.

Charles Xavier was a known danger from minute one. A telepath—a _powerful_ telepath, perhaps the most powerful in the world—with an array of skills that the government was far too familiar with. Not just reading thoughts, but manipulating them, controlling them, distorting the very perceptions around him. Of course they were looking for him.

Erik curses at the thought that he should've seen this coming. He should've seen to it that Charles was protected, that Charles was—

What? Locked away in some bunker where no one could touch him? Sequestered in a tower with no access to the outside world? Even with the avalanche of terrified, possessive fury rolling through Erik's blood he knows there's nothing more he could have done.

"We have the base on our scanners," Riptide announces into the nearly silent cockpit. There are three other jets out there, sleek and small—a small army about to set upon the facility.

The base will have better defenses than most—defenses geared towards mutant kind, towards harming them in ways normal weapons usually fall short—and Erik knows they will have to move cautiously in their assault.

"Notify the others," Erik says. "Tell them to stay close. We move the second all units have touched down."

"Anything else?" Riptide asks, hand on his headset.

"Yes," Erik says. His expression is grim, his heart hammering loudly with rage and the anticipation of violence. "Tell them not a single human is to be left alive."

Charles wouldn't approve. For once, Erik doesn't care.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Despite its anti-mutant defenses, the base is no match for Magneto's well-trained Brotherhood.

Erik is almost disappointed. One would think, after what happened in Cuba, they would've learned to avoid using an excess of metal in the design of their facility. As it is, tearing through is embarrassingly easy. There are too many bullets and projectiles for him to defend entirely, and several of his people are wounded. But no one fatally. No one dies in that initial assault, and Erik feels grim pride in his men and women as he gestures commands that send them scattering deeper into the base.

Mystique heads the group veering towards the science labs. Riptide takes a team in the opposite direction, down a steeply sloping corridor that will lead them towards the weapons caches and scrambling human reinforcements. Shade, brought around to reason, cuts a swath towards the main evacuation route—a detail Frost was more than happy to provide in her detailing of the facility's schematics.

Azazel stays at Erik's side as the teams scatter, and when the corridor is at last silent Erik turns, locking him in place with a determined look from beneath his ever-present helmet.

"Crowley will be in the main command center by now," Erik says. "Take me there."

Azazel sets a hand on his shoulder and complies.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The defense of the central command center is even more of an embarrassment than the base's initial lines of defense.

Perhaps they weren't expecting Erik to bring a teleporter.

There are no more than a dozen guns in the room, and it's child's play to yank them from hands and holsters and turn them on their owners. For a moment there's cacophonous chaos, the deafening ricochet of gunfire and the screams that inevitably follow.

The seven unarmed individuals in the room stare at him, wide-eyed and terrified, and Erik hopes he hasn't just killed the one man he intends to take his time with.

"Which of you is Terrance Crowley?" he demands in a low voice that brooks no delay.

Six hands rise, from various spots around the room, and point at a tall, skinny man with thinning blonde hair. His face is narrow and craggy, his eyes flashing terror behind round spectacles, and he takes an involuntary step back.

Erik moves towards him, a sneer twisting across his face beneath his helmet.

"Azazel?" Erik says without taking his eyes off his newfound target.

Within seconds the other six occupants of the room lie dead amongst their fallen colleagues, bleeding across the floor, and the air smells vaguely of a banked fire. The last puff of red is just dissipating across the room when Azazel rematerializes at Erik's side.

"You can leave us now," Erik says, still watching Crowley's narrow, trembling form. "Join Riptide. Make sure no one escapes."

Azazel vanishes in a cloud of red, and Erik takes a threatening step towards his prey.

"Now," Erik says. "We're going to have a quick chat, you and I. And perhaps, if you tell me everything I want to know, I will let you live."

He won't. Everyone in this base needs to die, this man most of all. Erik worries briefly that his resolve will show on his eyes—that Crowley will call his bluff and refuse to answer his questions.

But the lie must be convincing enough, because Crowley collapses to his knees and looks up at Erik with a quiet, sniveling hope in his eyes.

Erik kneels, keeping the movement deliberate and slow, and takes a quick inventory of all the metal Crowley has on his person. Expensive watch on his right wrist, a wedding ring on his left hand. Metal belt buckle, a chain with a small cross around his throat, the wire frames of his glasses. There's a knife tucked in a sheath at his ankle, and Erik briefly considers confiscating it.

He opts to leave it for now. If Crowley is watching for his moment of escape—if he's convinced he's buying time until he can draw the knife and kill Magneto—he's likely to be far more forthcoming. Already Crowley looks steadier, as though he's assessing his circumstances and has decided they're not so dire as they seem.

"You're going to tell me everything about this place," Erik says. His voice comes out in a low growl. "And everything you've done to Charles Xavier. If you lie to me, this is going to hurt a great deal more than it has to."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Crowley has more spine than Erik expects. He puts up a fight, albeit a weak one, and Erik finds he has to use more persuasive methods than mere threat and intimidation.

The watchband is a convenient place to start—and effective enough when Erik tightens and digs the material into flesh harshly enough to cut off blood flow. He holds it there silently, almost disinterestedly, until Crowley's hand is purple and swollen and Crowley himself is shrieking and clawing at the metal band.

Crowley quiets quickly when Erik releases him, and there's new trepidation in his eyes when Erik leans closer and murmurs, "You could end up losing that hand if you're not more careful."

Crowley's throat works in a visible swallow, and this time Erik knows they're getting somewhere.

Most of what Crowley has to say Erik already knows. Emma Frost was very thorough with her information—the ongoing research, the defense program, the mission to secure humanity's safety in the face of the mounting mutant threat.

But she was far less clear on what they intended to do with Charles Xavier once they had their hands on him. Apparently her reluctant resources weren't important enough to fall on the very short Need-to-Know list.

So it's not until Crowley touches on the subject of Charles that Erik really perks up.

"It's the telepaths that are the real danger, you see," Crowley says. The barest tremble in his voice is all that broadcasts his fear. "The rest of you freaks, it's all just physical. We can find ways to combat physical abnormalities, physical abilities… But a telepath? How do you defend yourself against an enemy that can change your strongest convictions with a _thought_?"

"Charles Xavier isn't your enemy," Erik says through gritted teeth.

Crowley laughs at that. The sound is short and sharp and brittle with terror.

"You think that matters here?" Crowley asks tightly. "He's a monster. Just like you. He's too powerful to be left unchecked."

Erik snarls, lip curling in displeasure, but Crowley either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

Erik forces himself to take a calming breath—slow, soft, and not particularly successful.

"What have you done to him?" he asks in a low, dangerous tone.

"We've discovered how to neutralize the threat," Crowley says. Despite the fear in his eyes there's a flash of smug defiance on his face, and Erik's hands tighten to fists at his sides. He doesn't realize he's constricted the metal chain at Crowley's throat until the man makes a choked sound.

Erik loosens the chain only reluctantly, and it takes him a ragged moment to find his voice. Even then, the words come out guttural and rough.

"What did you do?"

"Injections," Crowley says, inexplicably bolder now. "We isolated the precise chemical compounds necessary to suppress his telepathic abilities."

"My god," Erik breathes as his entire body runs cold. The idea of Charles cut off like that—helpless, smothered, _silent_ —

Erik thought he was furious before. Now the very walls strain and warp with the force of his rage, and it's all he can do not to bring the entire control room down around them.

By all rights, Crowley should be cowering right now. He should be realizing how tenuous his circumstances have become, considering just how badly Erik can— _will_ —still hurt him.

But instead a manic glint has lit in Crowley's eyes. Something bright and dangerous that says he's not cowed by the way the walls and consoles are twisting around them.

"Experiments like this can be dicey," Crowley explains. "Especially with a single test subject. The process of perfecting the drugs is… arduous."

Erik feels frozen to stillness. He doesn't interrupt as Crowley continues.

"There's always the risk of unexpected side effects, you see. Or of permanently damaging the subject and rendering him useless for further experiments. It can be difficult to tell if the screams mean something is going wrong, or merely that the drug is working as intended."

Erik surges forward then. Helpless rage, empty fire fraying along his nerves. He can't breathe, can't speak, can't _think_ , and all he wants is to tear this man apart with his bare hands.

He's got his hands around Crowley's throat before he realizes the knife has come out, and he freezes the blade in midair, millimeters from his own neck. He can feel Crowley straining against his power, can see Crowley's muscles trembling as he tries to close the last of the distance and bring the blade into contact with flesh.

If Erik had been a split second slower, the blade would've reached his carotid artery and right this moment he would be bleeding out on the floor.

"Well played," he murmurs, impressed despite himself. "But not well enough, I'm afraid." Erik shifts back onto his heels, taking his hands off Crowley's throat and leveling a calculating look at him. "You're not going to kill me, Mr. Crowley. In fact, now that you've told me what I need to know, I'm afraid I have no further use for you."

Erik turns the knife with a thought, leveling the point of the blade at Crowley's left eye.

"Any last words?" Erik asks.

"Fuck you," Crowley gasps, and Erik gets to work.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Death comes too quickly, but there's nothing for it. Erik can't take the time to mete out slow, proper justice when all he can think about is getting to Charles.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Azazel pops in just as Erik is removing his cape and gloves, both of which have more blood on them than Erik intended to acquire. He tosses them carelessly aside—he has plenty of others. A spare set on the jet that flew them in, and dozens more back at the Brotherhood's hidden headquarters.

Erik removes his helmet and tucks it under his arm—he won't be needing it for now, from what Crowley said—and gestures at Azazel to make his report.

"The base is secure," Azazel says brusquely. "No human survivors, no evacuations. Our people are already looking to see what they were cooking up in the labs. Their scientists triggered some kind of autodestruct, but we disabled it.

"Excellent," Erik says darkly.

Azazel's eyes flick down to what's left of the government official, and when his eyes return to Erik he doesn't waste another second.

"Xavier is being held in the East wing of the complex. He's the only prisoner in the southernmost corridor." Azazel pauses then, only briefly—waiting for Erik to interrupt, perhaps—and when no interruption is forthcoming he continues, "Mystique has ordered our people to clear the wing, along with the mutants we've liberated. No one has approached him."

Gratitude and a sharp stab of something dark and possessive surge up in Erik's chest, and he nods.

"Good," he says. "Clear out the dead as quickly as you can. And make sure the humans haven't left us any surprises."

"Understood," Azazel says. He doesn't ask where Erik will be in the meantime. The answer to that is obvious enough, and Erik moves for the corridor exiting the command center, tucking his helmet under his arm and throwing one last command over his shoulder.

"Barring a nuclear attack or some other cataclysmic event, I am _not_ to be disturbed."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik's impatient stride makes quick work of the distance between the control center and the East wing, and any mutants he passes along the way are smart enough to clear out of his path.

He doesn't know what he intends to say to Charles. All he knows is that he has to see him—has to hear his voice and reassure himself that… what? That Charles isn't hurt? It's clearly too late for that.

Erik banishes those thoughts forcefully.

"God damn it, Charles," he mutters under his breath, pulse humming raggedly as he steps into the southern corridor.

The doors on either side of the hall are propped open and empty, one after another—clearly unused. Erik's pace speeds, footsteps falling louder, until finally he reaches a door that stands shut, bolted from the corridor. He pauses, straining to hear the slightest sound from the other side, but there's nothing. Silence. He doesn't know what that means.

The door looks like it requires six separate keys to manipulate all the different locking mechanisms, but it's a short moment's work for Erik to twist all the necessary parts into place. The door swings open on silent hinges at the barest nudge of power, and Erik steps into the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

His steps are quieter than the chaos of his thoughts, and he takes in everything with a calculating sweep of his senses.

The room is narrow and sparse. Immaculate. Amenities in one corner, low bed bolted to the floor against one wall. Thin mattress. Charles lying there on his back, obviously asleep. He's dressed in anonymous gray—thin sweatpants, drab t-shirt—and the whole ensemble looks insufficient against the chill that permeates the stark facility.

Charles doesn't stir at Erik's approach, and Erik's gut twists tight at how wrong it is to see Charles like this—with his defenses down, his senses cut off from the thoughts around him when he should be startling awake at the unexpected approach of another mind.

For lack of anywhere else to put it, Erik sets his helmet on the floor beneath the bed before folding himself down to sit beside Charles on the low mattress.

He stares at the steady rise and fall of Charles's chest for long moments, proof that Charles is _alive_. Erik's skin feels too tight suddenly, his lungs unsteady as he draws in a ragged breath.

Charles is here. Charles is alive. Charles is so fucking beautiful Erik can't process the sight of him, and he reaches out without conscious intent.

Charles lies with his head tossed to the side in sleep, the line of his throat bared and his face unreadable. His hair is soft where Erik's fingers ghost past his temple, and Erik isn't all that surprised to realize his own hand is trembling.

The rest of him is shaking—why should his hand be any different.

Charles stirs at the touch, but slowly. His eyes open with careless resignation—as though he sees no point in fighting whatever purpose his captors may have for waking him—and it takes him a full three seconds to register just who's sitting beside him.

His eyes widen with the realization, and he gasps, " _Erik_. How did you—?"

Erik doesn't mean to kiss him. He doesn't even intend to move. But there's something in the sound of Charles's voice, or in the startled disbelief in his eyes, or the fading bruise high on his cheek. There's _something_ , and Erik can't help it, he can't resist the impulse, and so he presses forward in a rush and cuts Charles off mid-question.

Charles makes a surprised sound against Erik's lips, and his whole body goes instantly still. He doesn't cooperate with the kiss.

But he doesn't push Erik away either, and Erik is too desperate to stop now. He grasps Charles's face between his hands, crushes Charles roughly against the mattress, oh god, he needs this, has needed this for so painfully long—

Erik thinks he could go the rest of his life without oxygen as long as he has this. But as the wave of panic and relief finally retreats, he realizes he _does_ need air, and he pulls belatedly back.

He freezes at the look on Charles's face. The moment is taut between them, electric and completely off balance. Erik is still touching Charles—he's not sure he'll ever be able to stop—and Charles stares up at him, disbelieving and shocked. Charles's eyes are bluer than Erik remembers, and wide, and impossibly bright, and Erik's chest aches at the sight of him.

He's not expecting Charles to surge up—to push him aside and squeeze past him, retreating right over the foot of the bed in an agile rush.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

It's a hurried retreat, uncoordinated and panicked, and Charles's legs feel unsteady beneath him as he backs against the wall farthest from Erik—which doesn't put him far from Erik at all, really, but that hardly matters when Erik is stubbornly not looking at him, and Charles…

Charles suddenly can't look away.

Erik is still sitting on the low edge of the mattress, legs folded close and body curved sharply forward over the space Charles just vacated. His arms are tense, the fingers of one hand clenching tightly enough to deform the edge of the mattress in his grip.

Erik isn't wearing the accursed helmet, Charles realizes belatedly. Or the ridiculous cape Charles saw him in the last time they met. But Charles can't distract himself with superficial details for long—all of that is somehow irrelevant next to the fact that Erik just kissed him.

Erik just _kissed_ him.

And it's not the kind of kiss Charles can mistake for anything besides exactly what it is. Heat. Hunger. Desire.

Oh god, Erik _wants_ him—has wanted him for god only knows how long. Charles has no idea how he could've missed this, and now he's gone and put all this physical space between them. He can't see Erik's face. He can't see _anything_ past the tight curve of Erik's spine, and suddenly he can't help feeling like _he_ somehow fucked things up between them.

"Erik…" he whispers, but he's got no idea what to say.

"You really didn't know," Erik says. His voice is tight and wrong.

Of course Charles didn't know. God, how could he have failed to see this in his own best friend's eyes—in his _mind_? It leaves him feeling lost, and his face flushes hot.

Charles doesn't know how to respond to everything Erik just laid out in front of him, so instead he finds his voice and asks, "How did you find me? Where is everybody?"

"Does it matter?" Erik responds in the same tight tone.

"The scientists?" Charles presses. "The guards?"

"All dead."

"You shouldn't have done that," Charles says. He knows the words are a mistake the second they're out of his mouth.

He doesn't need access to Erik's thoughts to recognize the instant rage that snaps through his body. Erik rises with furious grace, and crosses the room with terrifying speed.

"I shouldn't have _needed_ to," he snarls. "They hurt you, Charles. When are you going to understand that I can't allow that to happen? If the bastards wanted to live, they should've stayed away from what—"

Erik cuts himself abruptly short. His face shutters darkly.

Charles knows better, but he still finds himself asking, "They should've stayed away from…?"

Erik's expression, guarded so carefully an instant before, turns fierce. Sharp and determined. And after a moment Erik growls, "They should've stayed away from what belongs to _me_."

He surges forward, then, and suddenly he's kissing Charles again. He's everywhere at once—his hands, his mouth—and his tongue drives roughly past Charles's lips. There's a raw ferocity here that makes even the previous kiss look gentle, and Charles gasps into Erik's mouth when the weight of Erik's body slams him roughly against the wall.

He didn't push Erik away before, but Charles gets his hands between their chests and he pushes now, struggling to put some space between them—any amount of distance to regroup and get his bearings.

But Erik's body is an unyielding line of intent along Charles's front. His hands skirt beneath Charles's shirt as Erik's tongue plunders his mouth.

Charles pushes harder, a sharp jolt of movement, but the sliver of ground it gains him doesn't last. Erik's hands disappear from beneath his shirt and lock around his wrists, pinning them to the wall to either side of Charles's head. Erik manages the trick without surrendering the kiss, and he bites warningly at Charles's lower lip, chest rumbling with a possessive growl.

Charles's head is spinning, and the overwhelming roar of sound in his ears must be his pulse. Suddenly his blood is starting to flow south into places he damn well doesn't need it going.

This is _Erik_ —Erik's hands on him, Erik's body, Erik's mouth and tongue and teeth—and how could Charles not have realized Erik wanted this from him? How could he have been so blind to the things his own body is suddenly responding to?

But god, it's been so quiet in his head—so empty and _wrong_ —and for the first time in weeks, Charles doesn't notice the silence.

With Erik touching him, he doesn't notice the silence.

Charles gasps when Erik stops kissing him in favor of scattering a sharp-edged trail of bites and kisses down his throat.

"Oh god, _Erik_ — Erik, wait—"

Charles doesn't even register that Erik has released one of his wrists until Erik's palm is covering his mouth, silencing him mid-plea. Charles inhales sharply through his nose, startled as much by the heat that floods through him as by the gesture itself. He whimpers when Erik places a particularly vicious bite at the junction of neck and shoulder, and again when Erik slips a knee between Charles's legs. He presses forward with his thigh, right against Charles's undeniable hard-on, and Charles gives a muffled cry.

He doesn't have a chance for a proper breath when the hand covering his mouth disappears—Erik is already kissing him again, deep and possessive. Charles has a hand free now, and he's pretty sure he means to push Erik away, but he can't seem to unknot his fingers from where they've twisted in the fabric of Erik's shirt.

He's not sure Erik's tongue in his mouth is the only thing holding back his protests. He's not sure of _anything_ beyond the fact that his body is rocking down against Erik's thigh, and his skin feels flushed and hot, and his chest is spun tight with feelings he can't wrap his head around.

When Erik releases Charles's other wrist, it's to grab Charles's shirt in both hands and rip it straight from collar to hem.

Charles starts at the violence of the movement, and his attempt to jerk away is nothing but instinct. He doesn't get far. Erik fists a hand in Charles's hair, taking the kiss deeper instead. Erik's other hand slips to the small of Charles's back and slots their bodies more firmly together. Now Charles feels the unignorable press of Erik's erection against his thigh.

Charles can't think beyond the friction, and he groans when Erik breaks the kiss—when Erik growls and moves to press rough kisses along Charles's jaw. Charles's head drops back against the wall, cushioned by Erik's palm, and he gasps, arches his neck, baring his throat to Erik in a gesture so wanton he'll probably be embarrassed about it later. At the moment, he can't catch his breath for all the sensations taking him apart.

And then Erik's hand—the one pressed firmly to the small of Charles's back—ghosts lower, over the thin cotton of Charles's sweats. Erik cups the swell of Charles's ass, dragging Charles tighter against him—

Then that hand slips beneath the waistband of Charles's pants, touch tracing the intimate cleft of his ass, and Charles has barely caught up to what that means before Erik penetrates him with a single finger.

" _Fuck_ ," Charles shouts, unprepared for the intrusion. His ass clenches around the invading digit, and he can't breathe, can't _think_. His voice sounds gusty and wrong when he tries to form coherent words, and all that comes out is, "Erik, what are you—? Oh god, you can't—"

But even as he speaks—or tries to—his body is adjusting to the intrusion, relaxing by degrees, and he hasn't yet found that coherent thread of protest when Erik's finger slides deeper. Erik's tongue trails a hot line up his throat, and Charles can't decide which freaks him out more: the fact that Erik is working him open with one finger—with _two_ fingers now, oh god—or the fact that Charles's rebellious body seems to be completely onboard with this plan.

He aches where Erik is opening him up, but he finds himself rocking instinctively down into the touch—inviting Erik deeper despite the discomfort—and the groan that twists free from his chest consists far more of pleasure than pain.

Oh god, he's going to let Erik do this. He _needs_ Erik to do this. Christ, how could he have been so oblivious—

Erik goes abruptly still, and Charles curses out loud.

Erik's fingers don't immediately retreat. Erik doesn't untangle his fingers from where they're still fisted in Charles's hair. But he pulls his thigh back, and the weight of his body prevents Charles from following as he draws back just far enough to look Charles in the eye.

Erik's eyes are wide. His pupils are sharply dilated, and Charles can't read the expression on his face. He's not used to relying completely on visual minutiae without having the familiar undercurrent of mental energies to fall back on. He thinks the expression on Erik's face is shock, but he doesn't know what it means.

Charles's voice is strained when he asks, "Why are you stopping?"

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik takes his hands off of Charles then—slips his fingers out of Charles's ass, lets go of him and backs away so abruptly he nearly trips over his own feet.

Oh god, what is he doing? Charles is staring at him with stunned eyes. With bruises—bruises _Erik_ put there—darkening the slim column of his throat, and lips swollen from the force of Erik's kisses. The torn, ragged edges of his shirt hang useless over his chest and stomach, and he looks—

He looks beautiful. Charles looks like sin itself, and it's all Erik can do to keep backing away.

"I'm sorry," Erik gasps. "Oh god, Charles. I'm _sorry_."

"Don't," Charles whispers. Then louder, " _Don't_." And then, impossibly, he's following Erik's retreat. Following his steps all the way to the other side of the room, until Erik's knees collide with the bed behind him. He overbalances and falls back onto the mattress, and Charles follows him there, too—dropping astride Erik's lap and twisting his fingers in Erik's shirt. They're almost level like this, and Charles stares at Erik with wide, impossibly blue eyes.

"I need you to get off of me, Charles," Erik says. This is a losing battle, and he's not fighting it particularly well.

Charles kisses him instead of complying, needy and uncoordinated, and Erik growls into his mouth. He grabs Charles's shoulder and uses the shreds of his dying willpower to push Charles away—holds him there despite Charles struggling to press closer.

"That's _enough_ ," Erik growls sharply, and Charles reluctantly subsides.

"You can't—," Charles's voice breaks, expression shattering for an instant. But then he puts himself back together, and he sounds just the slightest bit shaky when he says, "You can't change your mind now."

"You fool," Erik whispers. "You don't know what I want to do to you." He's sure of it. The way Charles reacted to having Erik's fingers inside him—the surprise, the tight heat of his body beyond even what Erik was expecting—Charles has never been touched that way before. He's never been fucked—Erik would bet his own life on it—and there's too much trusting innocence in his eyes now.

"I don't care. I _want_ you to do it. All of it"

"You don't understand—"

"For god's sake, Erik, I'm not a child!" There's something manic in Charles's voice—a desperation that sounds nothing at all like a coherent argument. "Do you honestly think I don't know how these things work between men?" There's enough uncertainty in his eyes to confirm Erik's assumption that any such knowledge is theoretical.

But there's arousal, too, and something wild and eager that Erik can hardly believe he unleashed.

When Charles kisses him again, Erik doesn't push him away. Even when Charles starts undoing the clasps along the front of Erik's shirt—Erik is too busy kissing back, mapping Charles's mouth, dragging Charles flush against him. He's not sure when he jumped back on board this train, but god help him, there's no stopping now.

His voice sounds shaken and rough when he breaks the kiss and says, "I don't want to hurt you."

Charles's gaze is restless on Erik's face—he can't seem to decide whether to focus on Erik's eyes or his mouth—and he says, "You could never hurt me, my friend."

It's a lie. It's a beautiful lie. Erik has already hurt Charles. He'll hurt him worse before either of them retreats from the battle of wills that divides them. He'll hurt Charles now if he gives him what he's asking for, but Erik doesn't have any denial left.

He's wanted this too long, and far too intensely, to turn aside now.

Erik doesn't even consider the bed. It would be more comfortable, certainly, but it's too easy to imagine hands holding Charles down there, syringes and chemicals and Charles screaming. Erik forces those images from his head and instead shoves forward and lands them on the floor.

Charles sprawls awkwardly beneath him, bare chest framed by the torn edges of his shirt, the front of his sweatpants damningly damp.

Erik descends on him with eager hands and rough kisses, and Charles arches maddeningly beneath him. Charles's cock is a hard line of heat against Erik's leg, and Erik curses into the kiss and works a hand between their bodies, slides it down the front of Charles's pants and wraps his fingers around Charles's cock.

He gives a single firm stroke, and Charles breaks the kiss, throwing his head back and arching greedily into the touch. From the sounds he's making, Erik is amazed Charles doesn't come right then and there.

Then he sees Charles's face—expression scrunched tight, lower lip caught in his teeth—a look of such intense focus that Erik realizes stubborn force of will is the only thing holding him back from the edge.

He lets go then—because god damn it, Charles isn't the only one who gets to be impatient—and shifts his weight off of Charles. Before Charles can protest, Erik grabs him by the hips and manhandles him onto his stomach—then up onto his hands and knees. He pulls Charles's sweats down his thighs in a rough, graceless gesture, biting back a groan at the view of Charles's bare ass and the thought of what comes next.

He opens his own fly with trembling hands and pulls his cock out into the open air.

" _Erik_ ," Charles hisses, impatient and needy.

"I've got you Charles," Erik says.

He should use his fingers again first. He should take the time to open Charles up properly, he should find something to slick the way, god, there must be _something_ at hand—

But there's not, and he can't wait that long, and so he spits into his hand and slicks his cock and prays it will be enough.

He sets a hand at Charles's hip—slides it to Charles's stomach as he uses his other hand to line himself up—and finally, god _finally_ , pushes in.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

It hurts more than Charles expects.

Not enough to temper his arousal, but enough that he cries out, eyes squeezing shut as he drops his forehead to the floor. Erik stills above him—inside him—and Charles struggles to take a steady breath. He relaxes his body, knows in theory what he has to do, but it's still difficult to ease his muscles the way he needs to.

Erik waits an extra moment before moving forward, thrusting deeper by increments, so carefully that Charles is embarrassed at the staccato, shocky sounds escaping his lips. He can't stop though, can't quiet the noise he's making, especially once Erik slots all the way into him and drags a ragged moan from Charles's throat.

Erik moves in earnest, then. He keeps to careful thrusts at first, but his movements quickly become rougher, messier, and Charles rocks with the force of Erik's hips rutting against him, grunting in time with each jostling thrust.

It's so much more than raw discomfort. It's _Erik_ inside him, shifting the angle now, hitting a shocky, perfect place that makes Charles's vision white out and his blood pulse faster. He'd be reaching for his own cock if he could manage the coordination, but it's too much.

Charles's arms give out beneath him, and when he falls forward Erik follows. Erik's weight drops over his back, and then there are fingers wrapping around Charles's wrist, pressing it to the floor above his head, and Erik is bracing himself there, pressing a kiss to the nape of Charles's neck.

Erik's other hand slides low, over Charles's stomach, between his legs. Strong fingers curl around his cock, and Charles gasps at the touch.

" _Erik_ ," Charles hisses, and the sound is unfiltered pleasure. He clings to Erik's arm as Erik strokes him in time with each increasingly erratic thrust. The fingers of Charles's other hand spasm ineffectually, nothing but air to hold onto as Erik's grip on his wrist tightens hard enough to leave bruises.

He gasps when he feels the slick, surreal sensation of Erik's orgasm spilling inside him. Seconds later Erik's hand coaxes him over the same edge, and Erik's mouth trails messy kisses along Charles's throat, his jaw, the side of his face.

The world is in pieces—bright and fractured and too intense to process—and it's almost a relief when, after, as the wave of sensation is fading, Charles feels the dark rush of unconsciousness dragging him under.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik's hands won't stop shaking. There's too much adrenaline lingering in his system, despite the satisfaction that settles quickly beneath his skin.

Charles is a mess—even after Erik pulls his sweats back into place and settles him gently on his back. There's no helping the shirt, or the unmistakable bruises littering his body. Charles's hair is in chaos, and if he hasn't woken from the jostling of Erik putting them both back together then it's a safe bet he'll be out for quite some time.

Erik knows he needs to move, but he still wastes valuable moments kneeling above Charles, staring down at the exhausted sprawl, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Then Erik refastens his own shirt as quickly as he can, and casts a quick inventory about the room. With the exception of his helmet, still tucked unobtrusively beneath a corner of the bed, there's nothing he needs here.

Charles feels impossibly light when Erik lifts him in his arms, and terrifyingly insubstantial. He was always the smaller man between them, but he's clearly lost weight in the weeks of his captivity, and protective fury swells beneath Erik's ribs as he tucks Charles to his chest and rises.

With no hands to spare, Erik lifts the helmet with a thought, carrying it as easily through the air behind him as he carries Charles out the door and down the corridor.

The base is secure enough for now—though the humans may well launch some kind of counterstrike in a couple of days. There is time enough, though, and Erik makes his way out of the East wing, towards the personnel quarters. Somewhere warmer, more comfortable for Charles to rest.

One thing at a time.


	3. Chapter 3

Charles is still asleep when Erik summons Mystique.

The appropriated quarters consist of one room—far more spacious than the cell where he found Charles, and far warmer too—with a narrow but comfortable bed against one wall. Charles lies sprawled there now, atop the covers, shirtless until Erik can find something for him to wear that didn't previously belong to a dead human.

From looking at him, there's no mistaking what Erik has done.

He almost keeps Mystique in the hallway for their little chat, but in the end he doesn't have it in him to be that cruel. He knows she's been just as worried as Erik himself—or nearly so—and he ushers her inside, closing the door behind her.

Mystique's eyes dart to Charles, then quickly away again. Back to Erik. There are veiled questions in her eyes—a shadow that could be accusation—but whatever her thoughts, she doesn't put them into words.

"What did you glean from the labs?" Erik asks quietly.

"I've ordered Riptide to coordinate with our scientists and prepare a full report for you. They were working on more than a hundred experiments down there."

"You know which ones I want to hear about," Erik says.

Mystique nods and continues, "It looked like they were streamlining more than a dozen different injections. Their people left detailed notes about every one, but it's impossible to tell—"

"Is his condition permanent?" Erik interrupts, voice harsh with impatience.

"I was getting to that," Mystique says in an alarmingly gentle voice. "It depends which compounds they gave him. Unfortunately, at this stage it's impossible to tell. There's no way to know if he'll regain his abilities until the chemicals clear his system. It could take weeks. Maybe longer."

" _Verdammt_!" Erik breathes, low and furious.

Mystique doesn't try to soothe him with false reassurances.

"What do we do now?" she asks instead.

"Contact Beast. Tell him Charles is alive, and that he's safe. Then round up everything worth keeping from the labs, and any documentation you can find. We should be secure enough for a day or two, but we can't stay here. There's too great a chance more humans will come, and we have no reason to defend this place. It would be a needless waste of resources."

He considers for another moment, then adds, "Have Azazel investigate the base's support structure and power reserves."

"You're going to destroy it," Mystique observes.

"I want there to be nothing left when we depart."

A long pause stretches between them, quiet and gauging, and then Mystique's eyes slide back to Charles at the far side of the room.

"What about him?" she asks.

"I don't know yet," Erik admits. He doesn't intend to let Charles out of his sight, but once they leave this facility things will be more complicated. He can't very well take Charles back to the Brotherhood's central base—Charles would never consent to it, and Erik refuses to carry him off by force. But he can't follow Charles back to the school, either. If he can't find some kind of middle ground, his options will be severely limited.

Mystique nods, as though she understands better than she should. After a final, unreadable pause, she turns for the door.

"I'll keep you informed if we learn anything new from the labs," she says, retreating into the hallway. Then, just before she pulls the door closed behind her, she throws a piercing look back over her shoulder. "You should rest," she says. "You look like hell."

"I'll take it under advisement," is all he promises, and gives the door an extra nudge behind her. The latch clicks, and Erik lets out an exhausted breath.

When he turns and finds Charles watching him with open, lucid eyes, Erik's not as surprised as he perhaps should be.

Charles doesn't sit up. He doesn't speak. His expression broadcasts a confusing mix of emotions, and Erik doesn't even try to decipher them as he crosses the room and drops smoothly onto the bed beside Charles.

He's sitting closer than he should. After everything that just happened, he should give Charles more space. But he's helpless against the pull of Charles's proximity, and for the moment it's enough of a struggle keeping his hands folded in his lap.

"How do you feel?" Erik asks cautiously.

Charles blinks up at him for a moment, mouth pressed into a thin line and throat working in a silent swallow. And then throws Erik a curve ball instead of answering.

"You're still not wearing your helmet."

"No," Erik says after a startled moment. Then, "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough," Charles hedges. From the broken edge of fear in his eyes, Erik surmises that he overheard Mystique's report. But Charles doesn't press for more information—fortunate, since Erik has nothing more to give—and instead locks Erik with a piercing look and asks, "Did we really just do all that?"

"You mean did I just fuck you?" Erik says.

Charles flinches at the blunt words, dragging his eyes from Erik and focusing his gaze at the ceiling. The movement displays his throat, and Erik swallows back a hungry sound at seeing the bruises, visible proof of all the ways Charles just let Erik claim him.

"That's a yes, then," Charles murmurs uncomfortably.

Erik forces his eyes back to Charles's face, even though Charles isn't looking at him.

"Do you want me to apologize?"

"No," Charles says. But he's still not looking at Erik, and Erik feels something tight and uncomfortable—and a little too much like regret—twist in his chest.

"Are you sure?" he asks. His voice sounds too deep, too rough with gravel, and without thinking the words through he adds, "At best I took advantage. At worst—"

"How long have you wanted to do that to me?" Charles cuts him off in a clipped, breathless voice. His gaze drifts towards Erik almost like an afterthought, and despite his best efforts to hold motionless Erik finds himself shifting closer to Charles. He watches, oddly disconnected, as his own hand reaches out—as he trails the back of his index finger over the bruises at Charles's throat.

Charles shivers, breath hitching tightly, but he doesn't move away from the touch.

"Do you really want to know?" Erik asks softly.

Charles's lips press into a line, and Erik's gaze is caught again by the line of Charles's throat as he swallows.

"So you've thought about it before," Charles says in a cautious tone.

"Oh, Charles," Erik says, almost smiling despite the unsteady mire of emotions in his chest. "Of course I have." Leave it to Charles to ask the obvious question. Erik finds fragmented images springing to mind, memories of vivid scenes painted in the privacy of his own thoughts—so rarely indulged in, but impossible to deny himself completely. Erik's brow crinkles slightly as he adds, "Though admittedly, in most of my fantasies you were more…"

"Experienced?" Charles supplies dryly—the guess is both incorrect and unfair.

"Willing," Erik counters.

Charles freezes at the correction. He stares at Erik with wide eyes, disbelief written across his features. His lips are just slightly parted, his eyebrows knit tightly together. He looks like he wants to twist away from the hand still touching his throat but can't quite figure out how. He looks…

Furious, Erik realizes. And as the silence stretches between them, Erik finds himself leaning closer instead of backing away. Charles's chin juts in defiant challenge, and Erik's fingers slip higher along Charles's throat—until his hand is curled beneath Charles's jaw in a gesture so far from casual it leaves his skin tingling.

Charles draws in a single, sharp breath and says, "I had to all but beg for it, and now you claim I wasn't willing enough?"

"That's not what I meant." Erik's thumb traces idly over Charles's jaw, a caress ghosting back and forth. "You're not exactly at the top of your game right now, and I… may have been a bit too forceful."

"A bit," Charles snorts. And though he doesn't look particularly appeased, there's a different expression on his face now. Something wary and bright and maybe even scared. Erik doesn't mean to lean closer, but somehow the mattress is dipping from the weight of the arm he has braced beside Charles, and Charles's face is so close now that Erik can see the darker flecks of blue in his eyes.

"What is it?" Erik asks, not sure how to interpret the look.

Charles hesitates, shifting uncertainly against the mattress.

Finally he asks, "Are you in love with me, Erik?"

Erik's pulse rushes sharply in his ears, adrenaline surging hard through his body, and he chokes, "For god's sake, Charles. What do you _think_?"

Stubborn resolve flashes in Charles's eyes and he says, "I think it's been a very long time since I was able to read your mind, and I need you to say it."

Erik hesitates, not because he's unsure of his answer, but because the weight of it clogs his throat. He needs a moment to find his voice, and to muster up the words.

"Of course I'm in love with you," Erik whispers at last.

"You should have said something."

"Oh, Charles," Erik shakes his head sadly. "You wouldn't have wanted to hear it."

Erik wishes he were wrong, but the quickly shuttered guilt on Charles's face says he's right on target. Whatever brought them to this point—whatever violent, possessive instincts Erik knows he has to thank for the fact that Charles is looking at him like he's actually _considering_ all this—Erik knows he could never have spoken up sooner.

There's a bruise at the base of Charles's throat—right where neck and shoulder are indistinguishable—that's darker than the rest, and rather than try to find words to express the impossible, Erik leans in and nuzzles at the spot, pressing a kiss to the marked flesh. Charles shivers beneath him, and Erik kisses the next bruise up the line of his throat, and a third after that.

Charles gasps, reaches uncoordinated fingers to tangle in Erik's hair and hang on.

Erik kisses higher, until his lips are brushing Charles's ear, and finally he says, "You need to tell me to stop."

Charles laughs, a wry sound that makes Erik's heart stutter in his chest, and he's choked when he says, "I'm not sure I remember how."

God, it sounds like an invitation. It sounds like a plea. It sounds as lost and confused as Erik feels, if nowhere near as desperate, and he jerks back more abruptly than he means to. He yanks his hands away from Charles's body and sits back. If he could bear to put any more space than that between them, he would stand and start pacing, but the thought of that much distance makes his stomach crawl. So he stays, and watches Charles's hands settle against the edge of the pillow on either side of his head.

Erik wants to reach out and trail his fingers down the length of Charles's bare chest. He wants to map every inch of Charles with his mouth, lay even more bruises so that anyone who looks at Charles will know exactly to whom he belongs.

The desire to touch is so intense that Erik has to clench his hands into fists in order to resist.

"Raven is right," Charles says, startling Erik from his thoughts. "You should rest."

Erik blinks down at him, slow to catch up.

"Excuse me?" he says.

"You look exhausted," Charles explains. "How long has it been since you had a proper night's sleep?"

Erik stares at him and can't answer. He hasn't slept more than scattered, fitful hours since he learned Charles had been taken.

The answer must show in his eyes, because Charles's worried expression softens to something more exasperated.

"You should rest," he repeats.

"I'm not leaving you," Erik insists. The thought of walking through that door, even for a few short hours, makes his heart pound angrily.

"Then stay," Charles says. A ghost of a smile—the first Erik has seen in a painfully long time—lightens his features as he adds, "I'll protect you."

Erik should protest. The bed is too small. It's _his_ job to do the protecting. He can't rest until he knows Charles is safe, and as long as they're here—as long as the future remains unsure—there's no such certainty to be had.

But Charles is staring him down, fiercely determined, and when he shifts towards the wall to make room, Erik knows he's not going to protest.

"Okay," he whispers, and stretches into the space beside Charles.

The bed _is_ too small for both of them, but Erik doesn't mind having to curl close. Especially when Charles shifts to face him and lets himself be tucked against Erik's chest, lets Erik wrap him in a possessive embrace and press an exhausted kiss to his temple.

"Sleep," Charles murmurs. And though the word comes unaccompanied by any telepathic nudge, Erik drifts off almost instantly, lulled by Charles's warmth and weight in his arms.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles doesn't intend to fall sleep himself. He doubts he'll be able to with Erik wrapped so tightly around him, Erik's arms warm and possessive, his breath steady over Charles's skin.

But there's something calming in the way he can feel Erik's heartbeat beneath his palm, and Charles finds his eyes growing heavier with each passing moment.

He startles awake feeling chilly and bereft, with no idea how much time has passed.

He's alone in the narrow bed now, and he casts around with his thoughts, searching for the nearest minds—

Only to stop short at the painful jolt of emptiness that ricochets through him. The world is a void of unwelcome quiet, and Charles doesn't know how he could've forgotten.

It takes him a moment to realize he can hear actual voices in the room around him. Erik is murmuring in a low tone as though trying not to wake him, and when Charles opens his eyes he sees Raven nodding in agreement with whatever Erik just said.

"And the rest of my instructions?" Erik asks. Charles has to strain to make out the words.

"We're ready to move," Raven says. "The facility has been cleared, our people are back aboard the jets."

"Azazel?"

"Is ready to bring the place down. He's just waiting for you."

Erik hesitates, then. Charles wonders why—though he stops wondering when Erik shifts his weight and throws a worried look his direction. He doesn't seem surprised to find Charles awake. Mostly he just seems reluctant to leave the room, even in order to handle whatever needs to be done.

"Go," Mystique says, sparing just a short glance for Charles. "I've brought warm clothes. I'll make sure he makes it to safety."

"Signal as soon as you're clear," Erik says, tearing his eyes from Charles without acknowledging him. He strides towards the door, and disappears through it without another word.

Charles watches the door swing shut, and belatedly sits up.

His body aches with the movement. He feels the throb of tired muscles, and a deeper pulse of discomfort somewhere far more intimate, and he moves gingerly as he slides his legs over the side of the bed and presses bare feet to the cold floor.

"Here," Raven says. Her tone is brusque as she crosses the room and tosses a pile of folded clothes on the bed beside him. Dark colors, thick fabrics, a heavy pair of boots lying askew on top of the pile.

"Thank you," Charles says, feeling suddenly awkward. Raven stands a short distance away, looking so natural in blue, and Charles wonders how he could ever have thought of her as anything but beautiful. Guilt twists in his stomach, all those years he spent hurting her simply because he couldn't see what Erik clearly understood at first glance, and he suddenly has trouble meeting her eyes.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

Charles doesn't want to answer. He feels like hell. He feels wrung out and exhausted and empty. He feels _wrong_. The audible silence in the room makes it exponentially more difficult to ignore the gap in his perceptions where other minds should be murmuring, and having Raven so close without being able to sense _anything_ is making it difficult to breathe.

"Charles?" she says, setting a hand on his bare shoulder. There's sharp concern in her voice. Without thinking, Charles surges to his feet.

He wraps his arms around her, and nearly gasps in relief when she reaches up to twine her arms around his neck and return the embrace. His eyes sting ominously, and even though he knows she's stronger than him, he still wonders if he's crushing her.

It's surreal holding her like this. The natural texture of her bare skin beneath his hands, against his chest. It should feel awkward.

Somehow it doesn't, and when they finally part, a weak but genuine smile curls at one corner of his mouth.

"It's good to see you, Raven," he says.

Something sad shadows her eyes, and he asks, "What?"

"No one calls me that anymore, Charles. It's not who I am."

"Then what do I—"

"Mystique," she says. "Call me Mystique."

"I'll do my best," Charles says. He's heard the name before, but it will be an adjustment.

Raven— _Mystique_ , he reminds himself, tripping on it already—gives him a fond, exasperated look.

"Come on," she says, nudging him in the arm. "Get changed. We've got to get out of here so Magneto can tear this place down."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The air is so cold it makes Charles's lungs hurt, but he stands on the open ramp at the aft of the jet and watches from a distance as Erik takes the facility apart.

A sequence of explosions rattles the air and shakes the earth—tall plumes of smoke and fire that cascade along the landscape and drag the gray walls down to crumbling ruin. Even from this distance, Charles can see the ground give out beneath the structure, and everything collapses in on itself, down and down, until there's nothing left but a smoking crater and melting snow.

An instant later there's a swirl of red in the snow at the base of the ramp, and Azazel is darts past Charles, disappearing inside the jet.

Erik, once Azazel has released his arm, moves more slowly. There's no rush now, Charles knows, and he takes in the sight of Erik wearing his gloves and cape, that awful helmet tucked under one arm.

Charles hates that helmet. He would destroy it in an instant if he could. It hurts that the only reason Erik isn't wearing it now is that Charles doesn't currently pose a threat, and as Erik approaches him Charles has trouble swallowing past the lump of raw emotion in his throat.

How did they reach this point? What happened that they went from allies— _brothers_ —to this?

The thought of separating now—of watching Erik put that helmet on and disappear back to a life in which Charles has no place—Charles doesn't know if he's strong enough to allow it.

Erik stops beside him, hovering close. He's standing far nearer than he probably even realizes, gravitating towards Charles with an unspoken intensity—leaning close so that his chest brushes Charles's arm and sends a shiver along Charles's spine.

"I'd rather not let you out of my sight for the time being," Erik says. His voice is a throaty rumble that makes Charles's skin feel warm despite the bitter cold air.

Without looking at him, Charles says, "Then come back to the school with me."

"You know I can't do that."

Of course he can't. Charles swallows thickly, regret settling sour in his chest. He hates that he can't make this right. He hates a world that forces them to such extremes that any compromise between them is impossible. In this one, ugly moment, he very nearly hates the humans themselves.

But anger quickly subsides beneath calm resignation. Erik will never be able to meet him halfway.

"I suppose I could go with you," Charles finally says, struggling to keep his tone even and calm. "Just for the time being. Back to… wherever it is you go when you're not planting explosives and coordinating attacks on human power structures."

Erik startles visibly beside him, a tightening of his spine that's obvious even in Charles's peripheral vision. Charles turns, then. He inclines his body just enough to meet Erik's eyes, and finds Erik staring down at him with unmuted surprise.

"I didn't think you would consider that," Erik says.

Charles shrugs, though the gesture doesn't feel half as careless as he intends.

"If you have a viable compromise to propose, I'm listening."

Emotions cascade across Erik's face in a quick sequence, and it's all Charles can do to keep up. Relief. Hope. Fear, and then, finally, reluctant skepticism.

"I can't give you free rein in the Brotherhood's base of operations, Charles. The secrets I protect are no longer mine alone. And I refuse to treat you like a prisoner. Besides, it's only a matter of time before these chemicals clear your system, and then you could read every mind in the place as easily as glancing through a book."

There's sadness in his eyes as he explains, and Charles feels a matching sadness echo in his own chest. He knows Erik is right.

But he can't let it end like this—not this time—and so he squares his shoulders and turns to regard Erik face to face. They're standing close enough that he can feel the warmth of Erik's breath on his skin.

"If I gave you my word that I would not interfere… that I would not indulge in any of your secrets or read any mutant's mind while I was there… would that be enough?"

"You would do that?"

"Answer the question."

"Yes," Erik says. "It would be enough."

"Then I promise," Charles says, taking a step back and squaring his jaw. "If you take me with you, I give my word I will not take advantage of your hospitality."

Erik levels an intense look at him, heavy with undercurrents Charles can't decipher. Charles is suddenly painfully aware of the emptiness clawing at his insides—the fact that, without the helmet in his way, he should be able to _feel_ enough to fill in the gaps of Erik's silence.

When Erik finally nods, Charles lets out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

As they move up the ramp together, Erik's hand settles at the back of Charles's neck and he leans in close enough to whisper privately.

"If your telepathy doesn't return naturally, I swear to you we'll find a way to reverse the process."

"I believe you," Charles says.

The alternative doesn't bear considering.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles lets Erik blindfold him for the duration of the journey, but the artificial darkness brings fresh panic rushing beneath his skin. He finds it difficult to keep his breathing calm and his thoughts in order.

His absent telepathy is already a constant thrum of wrongness and disorientation inside him. Losing another sense, even temporarily, leaves him even more adrift.

Charles reminds himself that at the moment there are no certainties. There's every chance his telepathic senses will return in due course, and if he focuses on that—if he willfully ignores the fact that the alternative is equally true—he can keep it together in the meantime.

So Charles blocks out every What-If. He reminds himself that these are questions only time will answer, and then he takes every doubt, every fear, every hint of panic, and he walls them away. He digs a cave for all the things that are too overwhelming to process—dodging a sliver of guilt as he piles his new, confused feelings for Erik in alongside—and closes it tightly off.

The barrier won't hold forever. Charles is too much the scientist to let difficult questions go unanalyzed for long. But for the moment it's enough, and it lets him draw his first steady breath in weeks.

He's still grateful that between Erik and Mystique, someone is always close at hand, offering constant distraction through the duration of the flight.

It's not until the jet has come to a stop that the blindfold comes off. As they disembark, Charles blinks to let his eyes readjust.

They're either underground or in an incredibly well-insulated hangar. Or perhaps it's nighttime. There's no sunlight filtering into this wide space. The only illumination comes from overhead fluorescents and the evenly spaced light sconces along opposite walls.

"This way," Erik says, setting a hand at the small of Charles's back and guiding him towards a door halfway down the nearest wall. Charles catches the look Erik throws Mystique—the one raised eyebrow, Mystique's responding nod, an entire exchange communicating orders Charles has no hope of understanding—and then Mystique vanishes the other direction.

The corridor Erik steers him into is simple and elegant. Narrow with tall ceilings, all smooth edges and closed doors. They pass broader spaces now and then, graceful support columns and walls that flow naturally with few sharp edges breaking the effect. Charles takes it in with quiet admiration.

"This is beautiful, Erik," he says as they cross a sloping bridge that carries them over some kind of natural rock formation— _definitely_ underground, then.

"It's efficient," Erik says, though there's a pleased glint in his eyes.

"Did you make all of it?"

"Most of it," Erik concedes. Then stops abruptly in front of a door that looks exactly like every other door in the slim corridor. "Here," he says.

"Here what?"

But Erik is already opening the door, without bothering to touch the inset panel that Charles has to assume functions as the door's locking mechanism. He gestures Charles into the room and follows a step behind, nudging the door closed again behind them.

The room looks sparse but comfortable. Empty bookshelves, a generous bed in one corner, and a door on the far wall that sits slightly ajar, offering a glimpse of simple amenities. The bed's frame seems to be crafted from material twisted straight up from the floor.

"These are your quarters," Erik says. "I've made sure you're across the hall from Mystique."

"My… quarters," Charles repeats, blinking and trying not to sound too shocked.

"You seem surprised," Erik says, tilting his head and giving Charles an odd look.

"I just…" Charles laughs, sheepish and suddenly self-conscious. "I assumed I would be staying with you."

A pained expression crosses Erik's face.

"I didn't want to presume," Erik says.

Charles feels unexpected gratitude swell in his chest at the words, and he breathes a quiet, "Thank you for that."

Erik nods, then casts his eyes about the nearly empty quarters as though looking for a change in subject. When it becomes apparent nothing is springing to mind, Charles takes pity on him.

"I suppose a more thorough tour of the premises is out of the question."

Erik gives him a rueful smile and shakes his head.

"I'm afraid so. I don't intend to lock you up in here, but I can't allow you into any sensitive areas."

"Then," Charles says, suddenly uncertain. "At the risk of sounding presumptuous, I'd like to see _your_ room."

Erik chuckles at the request, and the sound reassures Charles that he hasn't gone too far.

"Certainly," Erik says. Then, turning for the door, "Try to keep up."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles likes Erik's quarters significantly better than his own assigned accommodations.

It's not a question of craftsmanship. In terms of construction and décor, the rooms are nearly indistinguishable. Erik's is quite a bit larger, but consists of the same fluid framework, the same sculpted bed.

But even the most superficial glance tells Charles to whom this room belongs. The bookshelf is packed with titles, predominantly in English and German, but with half a dozen other languages scattered into the mix. The bed is covered in dark sheets, pillows plusher than mere efficiency dictates. There's a desk against the far wall, busy with materials but carefully ordered—no files or documents sit open for prying eyes.

A spare cape hangs off the bathroom door, and the bed looks carelessly rumpled, as though Erik slept a fitful night and then left in too great a hurry to bother remaking it.

There's also a small table in one corner. An elegant chess set sits atop of it.

The pieces look as though they've never been touched.

Charles gravitates instinctively towards the table, and doesn't ask permission before reaching out to touch one of the black bishops. He feels Erik's eyes on him as he picks up the piece and turns it in his hand.

"Fancy a game?" Erik asks softly.

And despite everything—despite the silence in his head and the unfamiliar surroundings and the helmet that even now he can see sitting like an unpleasant afterthought on a corner of Erik's desk—Charles can't help but smile.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They play four games, one after another, and it's not until a yawn interrupts Charles's invitation to a fifth that Erik realizes how late the hour has become.

"It's two in the morning, Charles," he says, resetting the pieces without any intention of beginning another game. "Let me show you back to your quarters." It's a complicated route from Erik's corner of the base to the corridor of personal habitats where Charles will be sleeping. And while he wouldn't put it past Charles to have memorized the route from navigating it once, Erik would rather not leave him to make the trek alone.

It's not so much a question of trust as it is the urge to be a good host. Or, perhaps more honestly, the fact that he's not ready to let Charles out of his sight.

He doesn't explain, and he doesn't expect Charles will ask. Instead, Erik stands from the table, hovering close as Charles does the same.

But Charles doesn't immediately move for the door, and suddenly he's not meeting Erik's eyes. There's renewed tension in his shoulders, nervousness in the way he catches his lower lip between his teeth.

"Are you all right?" Erik asks. He wonders if he's done something wrong.

"Do you think I could just stay here tonight?" Charles asks in an awkward rush.

Erik stares. Blinks. Stands frozen in place, because that particular question is the very last thing he expected to hear from Charles tonight.

"You actually _want_ to?" he checks, skepticism heavy in his voice.

"It's not—," Charles starts, but cuts himself abruptly off. Erik steps closer—he can't help it, not when Charles is staring at the floor like that, like he wants to burn a hole through it—and after the briefest pause, he sets a hand on Charles's shoulder.

"What is it?" Erik asks.

Charles finally meets his eyes, and something too much like fear is visible behind his gaze.

"I don't particularly want to be alone," Charles admits. "It's… the quiet is worse, somehow. When I'm not with you."

"It feels different?" Erik asks.

"No," Charles amends. "Not different, just… harder to swallow." His lips thin in an unhappy expression, and his eyes cut once again away from Erik.

"I'm sorry," Charles says before Erik can agree. "I'm sorry, I know it's not… It isn't fair of me to ask for just your company like this, when you've made it quite clear you want more than that from me. I just—"

"Charles," Erik finally interrupts.

Charles raises his eyes, reluctant and hopeful, and Erik gives his shoulder a squeeze.

"You can stay," Erik says. "I promise to behave."

When Charles smiles, the expression is bright with relief, and it's all Erik can do to take his hand back and keep his word.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles sleeps better than he expects to in Erik's bed. Not just that first night, but every night that follows. Charles doesn't return to his assigned room, and Erik clearly has no intention of sending him away.

The bed is wide enough to leave them both plenty of room, but Charles still finds himself waking repeatedly in Erik's space, wound close and warm and intimate.

It should feel like more of a revelation than this, perhaps. It shouldn't be this easy to wrap himself in Erik's arms—to curl against his chest like he belongs there—to drift back to sleep as though this is exactly the way things are supposed to be.

But after the fierce confession of Erik's feelings for him, Charles can't bring himself to be uncomfortable with the intimacy he finds himself sharing with Erik now.

The third morning he wakes in Erik's arms, face tucked near Erik's throat, it feels only natural to press a kiss to the pulse point so near at hand.

He might not have done it if he knew Erik was already awake. Or at least he would have braced himself for the way the light kiss makes Erik descend on him with greedy hands and mouth. Erik's touch is rough and focused, and completely overwhelming. Charles's senses swim, even as he parts his lips for Erik's tongue and arches beneath him.

Erik jerks away in a jarring instant, and when Charles opens his eyes, his friend's expression is strained but bemused.

"That," says Erik, "was _not_ an intelligent thing to do."

"Sorry," Charles says breathlessly.

He doesn't try to offer an explanation. There is no coherent rationale for whatever this is between them. He should appreciate Erik's efforts to keep his hands to himself, but he also finds himself wondering, sometimes idly and sometimes not, just how hard he would have to push to tear down Erik's self control.

He shouldn't want a repeat of the violent chaos of the first time Erik touched him. And he doesn't want it like that, not really.

But Charles _does_ want Erik. That much is painfully clear to him—almost as clear as the reality that this arrangement is only temporary. He can't stay, any more than he can expect Erik to sacrifice his own principles and follow Charles back to the school.

The grim sense of inevitability twists unpleasantly in Charles's chest. It doesn't seem possible for it to hurt more than being cut off from his telepathic abilities, but god, it's a wonder Charles doesn't shatter right here.

"Are you all right?" Erik asks, worried at the extended silence.

"Fine," Charles says, tucking those feelings away as deeply as he can. "I'm fine."

Erik looks skeptical, but doesn't press for more. Charles takes a slow, steadying breath and tries not to look too grateful.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Much as Charles is greedy for Erik's time, he knows his friend has other responsibilities.

When Erik is off handling Brotherhood business, Charles is generally left to his own devices.

He knows better than to go exploring, but he remembers the way back to the quarters Erik first showed him—and he knows which door belongs to Mystique. She always smiles to see him, and invites him in. For tea, for conversation. Their discussions generally stay light-hearted.

There's no point covering the well-worn ground of their ideological differences.

Charles suspects Mystique would be more easily swayed than Erik, but he's far from confident in the outcome of that argument.

Besides, even if he knew he could win her over and convince her to return to the school, he's not sure he could bring himself to do it. Taking her away would leave Erik with… who?

No one Charles trusts the way he trusts Mystique. And considering the path laid out before them, Erik is going to need someone watching his back. If that someone can't be Charles, at least he knows Mystique won't let him down.

He's been a guest in the Brotherhood's hidden base for nine days. He's spent every night of his stay in Erik's bed, even if that time has been spent innocently enough. His mind is perhaps not as present in his conversation with Mystique as it should be, distracted as he is by thoughts of Erik's piercing eyes drilling into him this morning, and Charles takes longer than he should to realize Mystique's words have trailed off to nothing.

He doesn't know how long it's been since they both lapsed into silence, and he sits straighter in his chair, trying to decipher the concerned expression on her face.

"What is it?" he finally asks.

She glances aside guiltily, staring down at the table where her hands are wrapped around a blue coffee mug that's barely a shade lighter than her skin. Charles doesn't press, though he's tempted to. He doesn't demand an explanation. He simply waits, forcing himself to be patient and calm, as she swallows and finally gathers her thoughts into words.

"You were never interested in men," she says.

It's not what Charles was expecting, and he blinks in surprise.

"No," he says. "I suppose I wasn't."

"This thing between you and Erik…," she says, reluctant in a way that surprises him. "It's mutual, right?"

Charles stares at her in profile, embarrassed at how relieved he is she's not looking at him right now. His face flushes hot, and he's not sure what to say. How can he explain to her when he's having such a hard time wrapping his own head around it?

"Raven…" he says, and for once she doesn't correct him for tripping over her old name.

"I know he can be intense," she says, and when she raises yellow eyes to lock with his, he's not fast enough to look away. "But Charles… you can't just humor him. It won't fix anything. And it's not fair to either one of you."

"That's not what I'm doing," he says tightly. Her eyes stare right through him, and he wishes suddenly, so strongly it hurts, that he had access to his telepathic senses. Not to read her mind—that would be cheating—but so he could _feel_ her at least. So he wouldn't feel like he was flailing blind right now.

"But you're not in love with him," she says.

The words seize up in Charles's chest, stop his breath in his lungs, and he needs to look away. There's something dangerous in the air, a cliff's edge spinning closer, and Charles needs to break out of this staring contest before—

"Oh my god," Mystique whispers. "You _are_ in love with him."

"Oh my god," Charles echoes.

Then he's rising, stumbling to his feet. The chair clatters to the floor, and the room is spinning, and someone is calling his name. The table feels unsteady beneath his hands, and panic tingles along his skin.

"Oh god," he repeats, and his legs give out.

There are hands on his arms, guiding support as he falls to his knees, and he's shaking, god, he's shaking so hard his entire body is beginning to ache.

He knew he was getting too close. He knew he was beginning to feel… _something_. Even before Cuba, his friendship with Erik was always right there on the cusp of _more_ , and Charles should've seen this coming.

Christ, this isn't possible. Realizing he's in love shouldn't hurt this much.

Raven is still speaking to him— _Mystique_ is still speaking—in a low, soothing tone. Charles can't decipher the words through the panic pulsing in his blood, but he feels her voice grounding him gradually. The room stops spinning by degrees, and he remembers how to work air in and out of his lungs.

He closes his eyes and takes a measured breath. In and out, slow and steadying. When he finally opens his eyes he finds Mystique watching him carefully, worry flashing across her face.

"Does he know?" she asks.

Charles laughs, manic and mirthless, and drops forward, thumping his forehead against her shoulder and resting it there tiredly.

"If he does, he's a great deal quicker on the uptake than me." But Charles doubts it. If Erik had already figured this out, Charles can't imagine him keeping his hands to himself.

"Come on," Mystique says, tugging him to unsteady feet. "I think we need to get you something stiffer to drink."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The revelation lodges in Charles's heart and makes it difficult to meet Erik's eyes.

He still crawls into bed beside Erik that night. He doesn't even make a pretense at settling on his own side of the bed for once. He curls on his side, right in the center of the mattress, and holds his breath until Erik settles close behind him. Erik's arm drapes over his stomach, and Charles lets out the breath he's been holding.

The hammer of his racing pulse slows only reluctantly, and it's a long time before he drifts to sleep.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

He's alone again.

He's probably not supposed to know that Erik and Mystique have left the base on business, but even without telepathy it's difficult to keep some things from him.

He doesn't know where they've gone. He doesn't intend to ask.

He could pass the time reading one of the books on Erik's shelf, or exploring any number of corridors that haven't been designated off-limits, but instead Charles finds himself sitting on a broad bridge in a sprawling natural cavern, legs dangling over the edge and gaze taking in a distant view of columns and stalactites.

There must be artificial lighting wired into the formations to allow for a view like this—a thought that undermines Erik's arguments about pure efficiency, and draws a wry smile to Charles's lips.

Mutants have been wandering past him off-and-on all morning, so Charles thinks nothing of the approach of quiet footsteps.

He startles when the footsteps stop immediately beside him, and in his peripheral vision he sees dark shoes and black trousers. A quick glimpse of red catches his eye, and when Charles tilts his head back and back, it's Azazel he finds standing beside him.

"I thought you would be with Erik," Charles says, surprised that the teleporter is still in the base.

Azazel smirks as he folds to the ground beside Charles, dangling his legs over the edge of the bridge in a mirroring pose.

"My particular talents are not required today," he says simply. Charles doesn't even consider pressing for more information.

"Is there something I can do for you?" he asks instead, genuinely curious. Azazel's company is not something he expected.

"No," Azazel says. But he makes no move to leave.

The silence that settles between them is surprisingly comfortable, and Charles wonders at the surreal sense of… not companionship exactly, but tacit understanding.

"What is it like?" Azazel asks, startling Charles from his thoughts.

"I'm sorry?" Charles turns and blinks at him, eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

"Perhaps I am too forward," Azazel says. "But I am curious. Your telepathy… you have had it since you were a child, yes?"

"Yes," Charles concedes uncomfortably.

"I was quite young when Shaw helped me to discover my own abilities," Azazel says. "I cannot imagine what it would be like to have them suddenly stifled."

Charles doesn't want to think about this, let alone talk about it. By all rights he should tell Azazel that it's none of his business.

But there's no malice in Azazel's tone. No pity, either, for which Charles is grateful. A hint of concern, perhaps, but mostly a genuine curiosity that makes Charles open his mouth to answer before he's even considered his response.

"I don't know if I can describe it," he admits. "It's…" Emptiness. Silence. Ragged and claustrophobic and tight, cold panic twisting in his chest if he lets his guard down long enough to feel it. "…horrible," he finally says. "Like reaching out to touch someone's hand, and knowing you should be able to feel it—their skin, their warmth, their pulse—and instead finding… _nothing_."

Azazel's eyes darken in sympathy, and Charles swallows stubbornly past the lump in his throat.

"I can't imagine you like me much," Charles says softly. "But I know you were in Alaska with Erik… you came to my rescue anyway."

Azazel nods wordlessly.

"Why?" Charles asks, turning his head to look Azazel straight in the eyes. Azazel doesn't flinch beneath his focus or his question. The scars stand out clearly when Charles looks at him like this, and they distort the look of wry bemusement that crosses Azazel's face.

"I suspect you would do the same," Azazel observes, and Charles doesn't have it in him to disagree. "Besides. They would eventually have killed you. I do not think Magneto would ever have recovered from your death."

"And that matters to you?" Charles asks softly. He doesn't mean to be flip, or cold, or even rude. He's genuinely curious. Azazel seems to take his question without offense, if the narrow flash of smile is anything to go by.

"I have sworn to protect him," Azazel says. "If in order to do so I must protect you as well, then so be it."

Charles feels his eyes widen at the assertion, and Azazel's smile quirks wider.

"You look surprised," he observes.

"I suppose…" Charles flounders. "I assumed it was the cause you believed in, and not the man." He remembers clearly enough standing on a beach on Cuba—how quickly Azazel stepped forward and took Erik's hand after watching Shaw's body drop lifeless to the sand.

Azazel nods as though following the train of Charles's logic. When he speaks, it's with slow consideration measuring his words.

"Perhaps, in this case, they are the same."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Charles is standing beside the chess set, staring blankly down at the pieces when Erik returns to his quarters that evening.

Edgy impatience thrums beneath Charles's skin. Perhaps he simply had too much time in his own head today, or perhaps it's Erik's conspicuous absence for what felt like an interminable stretch of hours. Perhaps Charles has had too long to mull over his own feelings and come to dangerous conclusions.

Erik closes the door behind him with a dull click. He takes off the helmet first. Then the gloves, the cape, the broad-shouldered jacket, until he's just _Erik_ again, standing there in a black turtleneck and looking at Charles as though he wants to say something ridiculous like, "Honey, I'm home."

Charles holds his ground for five whole seconds before he's crossing the room and pulling Erik down into a kiss.

It's not a subtle kiss. Charles doesn't think subtlety is a power he possesses right now. He parts his lips in invitation, fingers slipping through the short strands of Erik's hair as Charles presses against him with unguarded purpose. His tongue darts forward into Erik's mouth, coaxing Erik's tongue to action, and he gasps when strong hands curl around his hips and hold on almost too tightly.

There's uncertainty in Erik's eyes when they part, and he searches Charles's face with painful intensity.

"I need you to be perfectly clear with me right now, Charles," Erik says. His voice is an aroused rumble low in his chest, and Charles's pulse stutters in anticipation.

"You can touch me tonight," Charles says in a rush. "I _want_ you to touch me." Then, leaning up—rising to his toes and leaning so close that a light breeze is all it would take to have them kissing again—he whispers, "Please."

It's Erik who closes the distance, wrapping one hand around the base of Charles's skull and claiming his mouth a second time. The kiss is all sharp edges and unmuted hunger, Erik's tongue in his mouth and hands dragging Charles roughly against him. He manhandles Charles towards the bed without breaking the kiss, then lays him back across the mattress, shifting Charles far enough up the bed for Erik to stretch out on top of him, all weight and heat and unmistakable intent.

Erik reaches for the edge of Charles's shirt, tugging it out from his pants, and then Erik's hand is sliding beneath the fabric, along his flank, and the caress of skin against skin makes Charles gasp.

Erik stops then. He goes still on top of Charles, pulling fractionally back. He doesn't go far—just enough to look Charles in the eye—and he doesn't takes his hands from Charles's body.

"Are you sure about this?" Erik asks. His voice is ragged rubble and shattering control.

"Completely," Charles says. His chest aches with the impossible force of everything he feels for Erik—of how badly they have the potential to hurt each other—but he needs this.

Erik moves slowly, then. Measured and deliberate as he slides his hands to grip both of Charles's wrists—as he pins them deliberately to the mattress without breaking the heavy, heated eye contact smoldering between them. It's almost like he's waiting for permission.

When Charles doesn't protest, Erik leans in—so slowly Charles has to remind himself to breathe—and nuzzles at Charles's jaw. It's a wordless command, and Charles instantly obeys. He tilts his head back, arching his neck and baring his throat.

Erik's mouth is slick and warm on his skin, and Charles cries out—pleasure and surprise—when Erik's teeth close on the sensitive flesh just beneath his jaw. Erik sucks on the heated point of the kiss, tongue playing over the spot and soothing the bite, and Charles chokes back a needy whimper.

Erik is marking him. Deliberately. Right where the previous line of bruises has finally faded. And Charles arches against him, eager and lost.

Erik's touch grows frantic then, and he releases Charles's wrists in favor of tugging at inconvenient clothing, touching him everywhere he can. His hands are rough and possessive, and Charles submits to everything, every wordless command, gasping and writhing and opening for every kiss Erik leans in to claim.

Erik doesn't fuck him, not tonight, but he finds a hundred other ways to take Charles apart.

They collapse naked and sated, hours later, and Charles doesn't complain when Erik crawls practically on top of him as they're drifting towards sleep.

"Can we do that again tomorrow?" Erik asks in an exhausted rumble. The words are teasing enough, but there's a more serious edge to the request. There's genuine hope. And Charles smiles against Erik's throat, a little sadly, and presses a kiss to the slowing pulse.

"As many times as you like."

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Erik doesn't shirk his duties, despite the way he resents every moment he isn't spending in Charles's company.

Charles has been their guest for nearly three weeks, and Erik has to constantly remind himself that their arrangement is temporary. It's only a matter of time before the other shoe drops—before Charles's abilities return and their truce comes to an inevitable end.

Erik still believes Charles's abilities _will_ return. The alternative is unthinkable.

But it's difficult to remember sometimes, that Charles will eventually have to leave. It's too easy to imagine him staying, a constant fixture at Erik's side. It's all too pleasant a fantasy, and all too easy to fall into when he keeps waking up with Charles in his bed—when he returns to his quarters each night and finds Charles there, eager and waiting and greedy to have Erik's hands on him.

Erik knows he doesn't get to have this forever. But keeping that reality firm in his head is too painful, and so Erik falls into the routine instead.

He knows he's asleep. The dream is a familiar one—empty corridors carved from metal and stone. The Brotherhood's familiar doors and structures.

But the layout is wrong. The corridors move in unpredictable circles, connecting in all the wrong places, and no matter who Erik is looking for, he can't find them. There's no one here, and no way out, and Erik hears nothing but his own footsteps echoing though rooms that are otherwise silent.

"What are you looking for?" comes a familiar voice, and Erik spins in surprise, twisting in place and searching out the source of the words.

" _Charles_ ," he gasps. This doesn't happen. This isn't in the script. Erik moves towards Charles in a rush, tightly wound and ready to pounce.

He's surprised when Charles flinches back at his approach, until he realizes Charles isn't looking at his face—he's looking at the helmet Erik didn't even realize he was wearing.

He stops before he ends up crowding Charles awkwardly against the wall, and removes the helmet with unsteady hands. Charles's expression softens, gratitude and relief, and his eyes follow the helmet in Erik's grasp.

"I hate that thing," Charles murmurs.

"I know," Erik says, stomach twisting with guilt. He wishes the helmet weren't necessary. He wishes they could fight _for_ each other instead of against.

"But you'll put it back on anyway," Charles says darkly. "You don't trust me."

"I want to," Erik says, and the helmet falls from his hands and clatters to the floor. He surges forward, backs Charles against the wall and says, "I want to trust you. But, Charles… you're too damned principled. You would try to stop me. How could you do anything less?"

Charles breathes a soft laugh, low and unhappy, and his eyes are pained and bright.

"I suppose we're doomed to hurt each other, then."

"Don't say that," Erik gasps. And when Charles opens his mouth as though to retort, Erik cuts him off with a kiss—quick, desperate and deep—shoving him harder against the wall.

Charles clutches at Erik's back, tilting his head and opening for the kiss, and Erik feels tears stinging in his eyes as he frames Charles's face with his hands—

He wakes smooth and fast, in his own room, right where he should be.

Charles lies beside him—right where _he_ should be—and his eyes are open.

He's watching Erik with a strange expression, gaze weighted with comprehension and sadness. Erik stares at him for an oblivious moment, then his eyes widen in understanding.

"That wasn't just a dream," he realizes, voice a rough whisper. "That was you."

"I'm sorry," Charles says. Not because he's broken his promise—Erik knows somehow that Charles hasn't rummaged unwelcome through his thoughts—but because this is the moment of simultaneous hope and dread that's been looming over them for weeks.

"It started yesterday," Charles continues. "But until now it wasn't strong enough… I wasn't sure…."

Erik rolls forward, interrupting Charles with a rough kiss. He thinks he feels the flutter of Charles's mind touching his own, but it's impossible to be sure. Charles lets Erik press him into the pillows, wraps his arms around Erik to hold him close, and Erik breaks the kiss with a choked, reluctant sound.

"Stay," Erik growls, staring into Charles's eyes.

He sees the instant Charles actually considers it. He sees the possibility, cruel and taunting—Charles by his side, walking these corridors as a partner and ally. He sees what they could accomplish together.

But he also sees, all too clearly, the shadow of himself Charles would become if they took that path, and Erik's chest twists with too many emotions when he sees Charles's expression harden with resolve.

"I can't," Charles says. "I'm sorry."

"Today, then," Erik whispers. "A few more hours. What can a few hours matter?"

Charles looks up at him, eyes wet and bright.

"All right," he says.

 

\- — - — - — - — - — -

 

Neither Erik nor Mystique accompanies Charles back to Westchester. They part in Erik's office, and while Mystique can't seem to stop hugging him, Erik keeps his distance.

Their are goodbyes have already been said.

"Promise we'll see each other again," Mystique whispers in his ear. She means off the battlefield. It's a promise Charles desperately wants to make.

"I'm sure we will," he says, falling short of the promise but hopeful just the same. This can't be the last he sees of her—the last he sees of Erik without that wretched helmet closing off his thoughts. Charles can't let that happen.

Resolve doesn't lend him any practical inspiration, but the sense of hope is enough. There's too much history between them. It can't end like this.

He's in love with Erik Lehnsherr. How can he go back to a world where they're doomed to spend their lives as enemies, fighting on opposite sides of a war that will ultimately destroy them both?

He can't, is the simple truth of it. Which means there has to be another way.

He detaches from Mystique's embrace with reluctance, steps away and turns his attention back to Erik. Erik's face is closed off and guarded, but he's not wearing the helmet. Charles brushes his surface thoughts and feels a chaotic mirror of his own emotions—a jumbled mess—and rising loudest from the chaos is the ferocious certainty that this is not the end.

"Ready?" Erik asks, and Charles nods.

Mystique opens the door, and Azazel steps into the office. His face is blank and professional, though he pauses on his way past Mystique, hand touching her shoulder in a gesture that might be intended as reassurance.

"Come," Azazel says when he reaches Charles's side. He holds out his hand, and Charles takes it, and an instant later the room distorts and vanishes. It takes several vertigo-inducing hops, with no pause or respite between them, but eventually Charles finds himself surrounded by green grounds and a familiar gravel driveway.

He wonders what Azazel's range is, but he doesn't rifle through the teleporter's mind to find out.

"Thank you," Charles says. Azazel inclines his head to acknowledge the thanks, and on a whim Charles asks, "Is there any way to contact you?"

"To summon me, you mean?" Azazel asks with a quirked smile.

Charles presses his lips into a thin line, embarrassed to realize that yes, that is exactly what he was asking. But Azazel laughs, apparently unoffended, and shakes his head.

"I'm afraid not. I can teleport great distances, but I cannot communicate in the same way."

"Be safe, then," Charles says, for lack of anything more appropriate to say.

"You as well, Comrade."

"Take care of them."

"I will," Azazel promises, and then vanishes into the air.

Charles turns from the empty space where Azazel had stood, shifting his attention to the manor and the minds inside it. There's a spark of activity, surprise and hurry—not panicked enough to be an alarm—which means someone must have seen him.

He moves towards the school with measured steps, and smiles at the sensation of his students' minds hurrying to meet him.

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> \+ **Dear Reader** , don't forget to check out Yana's gorgeous illustrations at [**the Art Master Post**](http://yanagoya.livejournal.com/24674.html)!  
> 
> 
>   
> [   
> ](http://yanagoya.livejournal.com/24674.html)   
> 
> 
> \+ Yana, dearest, you have been _incredible_! Thanks for being an epic partner-in-crime, and for all the amazing things you made me!
> 
> \+ Desperate thanks also to **[fayolin](http://fayolin.livejournal.com)** & **[leonidaslion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion)** , for their speedy and brilliant beta services. I wouldn't have made it without you two. *endless hugs*


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